Of Necessity
by ChocolateIsMyDrug
Summary: 'North & South' AU. Rumours are flying around Milton about Margaret and the man at Outwood Station, and the way Mr Bell and Mr Hale see it, it would be best if she were married as soon as possible. Mr Thornton seems the most likely candidate...
1. A Match Made in Milton

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A/N:

Yes, it's my take on a 'what if Margaret was forced to marry John' story. Even if the premise is rather done-to-death, I hope there are at least some new things I can add to this little sub-genre of N&S. Please read and review, and I hope you enjoy!

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**Of Necessity**

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**Chapter One – A Match Made in Milton**

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_14__th__ October, 1851_

The wedding between Miss Hale of Crampton, daughter of the Southern ex-clergyman turned private tutor and Mr. Thornton of Milton, master of Marlborough Mills went smoothly. The bride looked beautiful in her elegantly simple white gown, despite her slightly swollen and red eyes (which most people forgave, attributing it to the recent loss of her mother) and the groom looked handsome in his well-tailored black suit, despite his expression of utter disbelief at the reality of the proceedings and the fear that he was going to wake up at any moment (these feelings that the audience discerned were attributed to his being violently in love with his pretty wife-to-be and surprised at his good fortune and were therefore looked upon with indulgence).

As they both knelt to take their vows after the bride's father had walked her to the altar, nobody noticed the panic in the eyes of both bride and groom. If the audience could have seen into their minds, they would have seen the reason for this: the bride was terrified at the thought of 'till death do us part' and was blindly wondering if she could make a run for it, and the groom was terrified that she might do so, knowing that if she did, he could not stop her. This was no ordinary wedding, whatever people might think.

Of this, some small suspicion came into the minds of the congregation when the groom, when asked to kiss his bride, looked at her intently, as if searching her expression before briefly touching his lips to her cheek. Although nobody noticed the bride's sigh of relief at this, they thought it extremely odd. However, this was soon attributed to the groom's extreme reserve, which made him uncomfortable kissing his bride in the presence of others, even on his wedding day. The people of Milton were satisfied that all was as it should be.

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_11__th__ October, 1851_

Mr. Adam Bell shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was not sure how much longer he could sit here making useless small talk, when he had such an important matter to take up with Mr. Hale. However, it would not do to broach the subject when Margaret was in the room, so it was a welcome sight to see her retreating to her room after bidding them both good-night.

He decided to address his concern immediately. 'Richard,' he began, but then stopped abruptly. How on earth was he to do this? Mr. Hale looked at him questioningly. Taking a deep breath, he began again. 'Richard, I heard something most unpleasant when I was walking in the street today. Something about Margaret.'

Mr. Hale frowned, puzzled. 'About Margaret? What on earth –'

Mr. Bell sighed. 'There is widespread gossip about her throughout Milton. People are insinuating all kinds of things about her and a gentleman she was seen with at the station late at night a few days ago –'

Mr. Hale looked horrified. 'But that was Fred! Fred, her brother! Surely –'

Mr. Bell smiled grimly. 'I know that and you know that. But to the people of Milton, Margaret was having some clandestine meeting with a lover and we cannot change what they think. We can hardly be honest about Fred's identity.'

The blood drained out of Mr. Hale's face. 'What can we do?'

Mr. Bell sighed. 'There's more, Richard.' Seeing Mr. Hale's expression, he hastily amended his words. 'There is more, but this is where I see the solution to this problem – the way to rescue Margaret's reputation and stop the tittle-tattle of Milton.' Mr. Hale said nothing, watching him expectantly. 'About two months ago, you remember rioters stormed into Marlborough Mills. I don't know if you heard this, but there is talk that a woman was there with Thornton, and shielded him from the rioters, getting hit with a stone that was meant for him.'

Comprehension dawned on Mr. Hale as he suddenly recalled details which had seemed a little strange at the time, but had been pushed to the back of his mind by worry for his wife. 'You mean… Margaret? She did go to the Thorntons' that day, to borrow a water mattress for Maria. And she was unusually quiet and pale when she returned. You don't think…?'

Mr. Bell nodded. 'I heard her name in connection with Thornton's as well. I honestly think the only way we can save her reputation is to get her married as soon as possible. Thornton is a man of honour – I am sure if I explain the situation to him, he will agree. I will make him see that it is his responsibility, as he is partly the reason why the woman who saved his life is losing her good reputation.'

Mr. Hale ran a shaking hand over his eyes. 'I shall have to speak to Margaret. Will you talk to John? I think that would be best.'

Mr. Bell patted his arm. 'Of course, of course. Leave it to me. I shall go to Marlborough Mills first thing tomorrow.'

They parted with a firm handshake and then each was left to his delicate and difficult task.

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_Later on 14__th__ October, 1851_

Man and wife walked out of the church, walking side-by-side if not arm-in-arm. It was when man was drawn aside to talk about business on today of all days that wife was similarly drawn aside to talk about something even more inappropriate than business on her wedding day.

'Henry, let go – you're hurting me!' She wrenched her arm out of his tight grip and was pleased to see a flash of remorse before his expression grew cold once more.

'I was under the impression that you were not ready to marry _any_one.' His voice was somewhat slurred and she thought she could smell alcohol on his breath. 'I must have been mistaken.' Although the rest of her relatives were there and Henry was so close to the family that she couldn't _not _invite him, she suddenly thought that perhaps it would have been better for both of them if he had stayed away.

Despite her feeling of apprehension, she threw her head back proudly and raised her chin. She was not about to justify her actions to a man who was not completely sober. Her words were firm. 'Henry, you were my friend. This is not how I want to remember you.'

Henry opened his mouth to say something to wife, but before he could, man returned to her side.

'Is there a problem?' His tone was perfectly polite, but there was no mistaking the menace there.

Henry thought better of whatever he had been about to say and muttered a negative before walking away.

Wife looked at man gratefully, finally placing her arm in his. 'Thank you,' was all she said in her soft voice, but it was enough to make man's spirits soar and his lips curve upwards in a small smile.

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_12__th__ October, 1851_

'What are you saying, Mr. Bell?' Mr. Thornton's voice was strained.

Mr. Bell refused to let himself be daunted. _You are thirty years older than this man_, he told himself sternly, _and_ _you have the welfare of a daughter in your hands. _He proceeded to spell it out. 'I am saying that in all honour you should make Miss Hale an offer. It is because of you that her reputation is suffering.' Mr. Bell conveniently neglected to mention Fred. 'After she exposed herself at the riot – why, she threw her arms around you!'

'To shield me from the rioters,' he said shortly.

'And?'

'And nothing. Miss Hale has no particular feelings for me.' His voice had a bitterness which Mr. Bell could not account for.

Mr. Bell sighed, quite exasperated now. Really, Thornton was being far more difficult about this than he had expected. 'A gentleman would understand that after what Miss Hale has done, he is bound in honour to make her an offer.'

Mr. Thornton looked up sharply at the use of the word 'gentleman'. 'Really? I have heard that a gentleman would have perceived that _any_ woman would have come forward to shield with her reverenced helplessness a man in danger from the violence of numbers. I have heard that such conduct as making an offer under these circumstances is not the _way_ of a gentleman.'

'Look, Thornton, I do not know where you're getting these ideas from, but you really must –'

'I have already made Miss Hale an offer. She would not have me.' Mr. Thornton closed his eyes, wishing the words back as soon as they were out. That was meant to be a secret grief, known only to himself and his mother. And Miss Hale, of course – but that was only by necessity; stupidly, if he could have hidden it from Miss Hale as well, he would have.

At once Mr. Bell's somewhat hostile feelings towards Thornton softened. The man had done the right thing, and was clearly hurt by Margaret's repulse. Accordingly his voice was much gentler as he said, 'I will speak to Margaret. She must be made to understand that this is the only way. Are you still willing to save her reputation?'

Mr. Thornton sighed, passing a hand over his tired eyes. 'I love Miss Hale; my motive for offering her my hand was never with the express intention of saving her reputation and nor is it now. I did not want our wedding to come about like this, but I will do what I must, Mr. Bell.'


	2. Wedding Night

**A/N:** So, here's the next chapter, in which we get to know a little more about Margaret's feelings. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint (bear with me if the next few chapters get a little too mushy-mushy and feel-good - there's trouble looming, I promise!). Please read and review (may I say here just how much I appreciate every single one - if you read and enjoy, or read and find faults, or a mixture of both please please please let me know in a review)! Now that my little rant is over, onto the story!

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**Chapter Two – Wedding Night**

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_Still later on 14__th__ October, 1851_

The wedding had the desired effect. Doubt was sown in the minds of the gossips. Surely Mr. Thornton, master, magistrate and upright member of the community would not marry a girl who was said to be such a wanton, meeting secret lovers at night? Surely if a man like Mr. Thornton was marrying her, then the rumours were not true? But Miss So-and-So had been so positive about it… The wedding was a sudden affair to be sure, but if Mr. Thornton was marrying her, then…

In this way, Mr. Thornton's good reputation raised Margaret's also. However, this was a small consolation to her as she still smarted over being forced to marry in this way. She had shed bitter, angry tears when her father had told her, with more determination than she had ever seen in him, that she must be chained to Mr. Thornton for the rest of her life. He was swayed by nothing, not reasoning, not tears, not anger. There was no moving him. Margaret had briefly considered running away, like a heroine of a badly-written novel, but dismissed this notion almost immediately – it would be incredibly selfish and irresponsible to do something like that; something which would worry her father to death and would only confirm the slanders against her. And besides, Margaret had nowhere to run. Edith and Aunt Shaw were currently travelling in Italy, and she knew of nobody else to appeal to.

There was nothing for it but to yield, however grudgingly. It was the last thing she wished to do, but it seemed to be her only option. But then the thought had suddenly struck her, that until now she had only been thinking about her own reaction to this arrangement – what would Mr. Thornton think of it? He who had been mortified by her rejection of what had no doubt been goaded out of him by sharp compassion for her 'exposure'.

But no – he had said that he loved her, and surely one could not manufacture those tones of fervency, that trembling that was really more like a strong thrilling or the vibration of some tight cord, that look of pain that was so intense that even she had regretted the harshness of her words...?

Would he even agree in the first place after she had treated him so abominably?

For her words to him that day had been harsh and, she now readily acknowledged, somewhat undeserved. He had just picked an extraordinarily bad time to propose; she was convinced now that had he come a few days later, although her feelings would not have allowed her to do anything other than reject him, she would have done it considerably more gently. Anyway, even if Mr. Thornton did agree, would he triumph over her, and make her repent her refusal? Would he hold it over her for the rest of their married life, she wondered. There was no knowing.

She was brought out of her reverie as the carriage jolted as it went over a rut. She looked at the man sitting next to her as they made their way to his home, which was now apparently to be hers also. Feeling her gaze on him, he gave her a tentative smile. Her eyes blurred with tears and she hurriedly looked away.

Not once in that awkward private meeting in her father's study had he triumphed over her or reminded her of her shabby treatment of him. His voice had been gentler than she'd ever heard it as he told her that he would never hurt her and would do his best to make her happy if she'd only give him a chance.

His words softened her rigid sense of defiance and her feeling of ill-usage, but she was still determined to be honest with him. 'I cannot promise you that I will come to love you,' she had said, and her voice had come out rather colder than she had intended. He had simply nodded, but she could see in the quickly hidden flash of pain in his eyes that though her words had not been unexpected, they still hurt him.

She had hesitated before laying her small hand on his arm. Finally meeting his eyes, she had added softly, 'But I will try.' It was the only thing she _could_ do.

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That afternoon, after luncheon, Mr. Thornton left for the mill, claiming that he had to look over the accounts. His mother was astonished that he would want to leave the side of his new wife on their wedding day and annoyed that she would have to keep her company by herself, Fanny having gone to visit some friend of hers. She did not know why Miss Hale had changed her mind about her son, but if she made John happy, Mrs. Thornton could not bear her a grudge for long. She had determined to treat Miss Hale as her own daughter, and would try to love her for her son's sake, so she made no comment about her son's odd behaviour.

They were sitting in the drawing room, Mrs. Thornton finishing changing the initials on the linen, Margaret trying concentrate on her book, resolved to make the best of her present situation – after all, she was going to be stuck here for the rest of her life; it would not do to constantly dwell on her misfortune, or annoy the woman who might be her only ally. Mrs. Thornton's concentration was also not on her occupation, but was instead on something rather troubling which had just occurred to her and she glanced at her new daughter-in-law. The girl's mother had passed away, and she had promised to give advice as she would to her own daughter; it could not in all decency be avoided.

'Margaret,' she said (both women had early agreed on calling each other by their Christian names, as it would be ridiculous if they both referred to each other as Mrs. Thornton). Her daughter-in-law looked up enquiringly. 'Did your mother… did she tell you anything about… wifely duties before she passed away?'

Margaret's face showed no embarrassment. 'No, she did not tell me much, but I do have some experience in these matters.' Mrs. Thornton's face darkened as her mind inevitably flashed to the recent rumours she had heard about some gentleman at the station with Margaret – the rumours she had endeavoured to forget when she learnt from her son of his impending wedding to Miss Hale. Miss Hale shamelessly continued, 'When Mama was ill, I practically ran our household – so I am sure I can learn to organize menus with the cook, and I shall be perfectly able to oversee the general housekeeping and laundry,' her daughter-in-law finished serenely.

Mrs. Thornton was simultaneously relieved and dismayed by this reply. It told her that Margaret was all that was innocent and maidenly, but it also told her that she would have to shed some light on certain things so that the poor girl had some idea of what to expect on her wedding night.

By the end of their conversation, there was not a shade of red that either woman's face had not turned.

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Margaret's reflection looked paler than usual in the mirror. Perhaps it was only the effect of the moonlight or the contrast between her dark hair and her fine-grained ivory skin, but she did feel somewhat light-headed. Mrs. Thornton did not know the nature of their marriage; surely under the circumstances Mr. Thornton would not expect her to do _that_…

Her grip on her hairbrush tightened until her knuckles turned white. But then again, it was their wedding night and she was now his wife. She started to shiver and told herself that it was the cold. It was a lie that gave little comfort.

Just then, she heard footsteps approaching her room. Despite having known him for only a few short months, she immediately recognized his firm, deliberate footsteps. She gave a small squeak as the footfalls hesitated outside the door and she hurried over to the large bed and got in, pulling the covers over her. As she heard the door creak open and the footsteps come closer, she willed herself to stay still and keep her eyes closed.

Mr. Thornton entered the room hesitantly and walked over to the figure he could see lying in his – _their_ – bed. Her eyes were shut tight and she appeared to be holding her breath. He sighed as he walked away from the bed into his dressing room and started to change out of his clothes. Perhaps he should have told his mother the precise details of how their wedding had come about – then different sleeping quarters for the two of them might have been arranged and would have saved them this wretched embarrassment.

As it was, all he had told her had been that Miss Hale had agreed to marry him, and that their wedding would take place as soon as possible. Although rather annoyed that the time constraint meant that the event could not be as big as a Thornton's wedding ought to be, his mother had taken it in her stride and had been in charge of almost all the preparations.

Pulling on his night shirt, he walked around to his side of the bed, and kneeling on the bed he slowly put a hand on her shoulder. 'Margaret.' His voice was gentle. Her entire body stiffened and then she whimpered and shrugged his hand off. He replaced it, repeating her name.

'Please.' The terror in her voice cut through him like a knife. 'Please don't.' How could she think that he...? What must her opinion of him be?

'Margaret, look at me,' he said quietly, his voice firm. She slowly turned on her side to face him, and he could see that she was trying desperately to mask the fear in her eyes, clutching her hairbrush even more tightly. For a moment his lips twitched as he glanced at it. 'You're not intending to knock me out with that, are you?'

She said nothing, and seeing the spark of an idea in her eyes, he hastily continued before it could fully take form and be executed. 'Margaret, I am not a monster. I meant it when I said I would never hurt you.' He paused for a moment, inwardly cursing his inability to put his thoughts into words. He continued, 'I would never force you to do anything. You must understand that the day I touch you will be the day you welcome it.' On hearing this, Margaret's eyes filled with tears of gratitude at the words of this gentleman, for gentleman he truly was, no matter what she had said that day.

He misinterpreted her tears and was dismayed. 'You must believe me. I could never impose on you – I love you too well for that.'

She closed her eyes and one tear slipped out. 'I know,' she whispered. She reached for his hand and squeezed it. 'Thank you.'

He leaned over and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. 'Sleep well, Margaret.' Fortunately for her, the darkness hid her violent blush when she suddenly registered his shocking state of undress. Why, not only was the tall column of his neck completely exposed, she could see down to a few inches below his collar bone from the open neck of his night shirt. She felt suddenly faint as he kissed her forehead and his musky scent invaded her nostrils, her own lips very close to the dark stubble of his jaw.

She could not explain the twinge of disappointment which was mingled with her relief when he took his pillow and lay down on the chaise longue in their bedchamber instead of next to her on the bed.


	3. Wifely Duties

**A/N:** I'd like to take this opportunity to say thank you to all the people who reviewed anonymously whom I couldn't personally thank: aileen, Leslie and Chris01 – thank you all so much for taking the time to review; it really made my day, and I'm so glad you all liked my story.

Okay – now onto chapter 3 (I hope I need not add, please read and review!)!

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**Chapter Three – Wifely Duties**

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The next morning Margaret woke with a start, sitting up in bed with a sudden feeling of panic as she took a moment to recognize her surroundings. Then it all came back to her. _Of course. _She was no longer Margaret Hale of Crampton – she was now Margaret Thornton of Marlborough. Somewhat to her surprise, this knowledge did not depress her spirits nearly as much as she thought it would. After Mr. Thornton's consideration and tact last night, she felt that perhaps this was not so bad after all, and that maybe everything could work out.

However, she could not deny that she was still somewhat apprehensive – for now Mr. Thornton had maintained a respectful distance. But what if she should never welcome his touch? How long would it be before he got tired of waiting? She tried to push these thoughts out of her mind. She would deal with that problem when it arose.

Her days soon settled into a fine rhythm. In the mornings, she had schooled herself to rise earlier than on the first day, enabling her to take breakfast with the rest of the family (apart from Fanny, of course, who had not yet schooled herself to do anything, forget waking early). The morning would be spent any way the women wanted; Margaret could either sit with Mrs. Thornton and do needlework or read or write letters or she could go for walks. Mr. Thornton would sometimes join them at home for luncheon if work permitted it, and everyday Margaret learned new things about the mill and how it was run. The afternoons would be spent either in Mrs. Thornton showing her how the household was run or in the occasional social visit. Surprisingly and almost worryingly quickly, Margaret began to get used to the new life she was leading.

The evenings followed a pattern as well. Mr. Thornton generally came home from the mill so late that she was usually already in bed or getting ready to go to bed. Every night like the first, he would kiss her forehead, bid her good night and then sleep on the chaise. Margaret was beginning to feel somewhat guilty about this. She had driven him out of his own bed; and surely the chaise could not be very comfortable to sleep on all night? And it had been a week, and he had not broken his word. Accordingly, she made a decision.

That afternoon, as Mrs. Thornton was showing her how the kitchen worked, she asked, somewhat timidly what foods Mr. Thornton liked and disliked. Usually Mrs. Thornton, who had brought up her son not to be a fussy eater, would have taken offence at any insinuation that he could be so frivolous, but she saw her daughter-in-law's question for what it really was, an earnest desire to please. Accordingly, banishing the first wave of annoyance and defensiveness which came instinctively to her, she thought for a while and affirmed that he disliked oysters and liked roast pork and that he had always liked chocolate.

That evening come suppertime, Mrs. Thornton was unsurprised but somewhat pleased to discern that supper included roast pork, dessert was chocolate and that there was not an oyster in sight. Unfortunately, Mr. Thornton was not yet back from the mill to see and appreciate his young wife's efforts. Margaret claimed that she was not yet hungry, and would wait until a little later to eat supper, urging Fanny and Mrs. Thornton to continue without her. Mrs. Thornton, correctly interpreting 'a little later' to mean 'when John comes home' acquiesced with a good grace.

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That evening, when Mr. Thornton did come home, he was surprised and pleased to see Margaret still up and a smile lit up his usually stern countenance as she greeted him and made small talk. Though they had been married for almost a whole week now, they had not really had a proper conversation since their wedding night. He had not known until now that it was possible to miss her even when she was his wife and right there.

As she led him into the dining room, he observed that two places were set and his brow furrowed in concern. 'You have not yet eaten?'

She shrugged. 'I was not hungry, so I thought I might wait for you,' she said lightly.

Supper was a quiet affair and both of them were for the most part silent while eating, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. It was not lost on Thornton that the meal was made up of some of his favourite foods.

'Who prepared the menu for today?' he asked curiously, as they were finishing up dessert.

Margaret looked anxious. 'I did. Why, is something wrong?'

He shook his head. 'Not at all. How did you know all my favourites?'

She smiled. 'It was not difficult. I simply asked your mother – although I almost thought she was going to scold me for insinuating that you were a fussy eater.'

That keen honest smile of intense enjoyment that she had admired the first day he had taken tea in Crampton shone out of his eyes at her words and the truth they no doubt conveyed.

Without thinking, she observed, 'Mr. Thornton, you really do have a nice smile. You should smile more often.'

His smile grew wider and the room actually seemed to become brighter. 'Well, continue being such a good wife, Mrs. Thornton, and I promise I shall have no trouble smiling regularly.'

She flushed with pleasure at his praise. 'You really think I am a good wife? I resolved today to be a better one than I have been. After all, you were so good to me – it is the least I can do.'

The two of them walked up to their bedchamber, reflecting on the evening. Finally, Margaret spoke. 'Shall we do this every day, Mr. Thornton? Only, it is nice to spend some time actually talking to each other.'

Mr. Thornton agreed. 'Certainly; it is nice. Is there anything in particular you wish to talk about tonight?'

Margaret hesitated for a moment as they opened the door and walked in. Would he think her too forward? Or a hypocrite? After all, it was because of her reservations that he was now sleeping on the chaise. 'Well, I did wish to discuss our sleeping arrangements.'

His face fell momentarily, but then he schooled his expression to show nothing. 'Oh? Certainly, if you wish I will move to another chamber.'

'No, that's not what I meant,' she interjected hurriedly. 'Only, well…' She hesitated again. 'It cannot be comfortable or healthy for you to spend full nights sleeping on a chaise longue. I just thought you would be more comfortable sleeping in your own bed.'

He frowned slightly in confusion. 'You wish to move chambers?'

She sighed in exasperation. What she wished, was that he did not ruin his health sleeping on the chaise, but at the same time she did not wish to give the impression that she was displeased with him, which was what a request for her sleeping quarters to change would almost certainly seem like. Why was he making this so _difficult_? Did she have to spell it out? 'No, Mr. Thornton, I do not particularly wish to move chambers. I am happy for my sleeping arrangements to stay the same; I simply believe it would be more comfortable for you if you slept in our bed too.' Seeing his shocked expression, she coloured hotly, looking at her feet. He _did _think her too forward. 'There is more than enough room,' she told her shoes defensively.

After some time of awkward silence, she chanced a glance at him. He still looked disbelieving. 'You would not mind? You would not feel…' He trailed off.

Margaret shook her head and looked him in the eye, her voice firm. 'I trust you; I am not afraid of you.'

That sudden bright smile appeared again, and before she knew what was happening, his lips were on hers. Just as quickly as it began, it ended and Mr. Thornton instantly began stammering apologies. A fine thing it would be if he lost her trust just as she was declaring that he had it!

Once she had recovered from her surprise, Margaret touched a hand to her lips and they unconsciously curved into a small smile. 'Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Thornton. That was… not unpleasant.'

He looked taken aback. 'It wasn't?' he said, sounding utterly surprised. He had been expecting a resounding slap for his presumptuousness.

She nodded decisively. 'In fact, I think from now on you should bid me good night in _this_ way every day.'

His eyes got a gleam that could only be described as devilish and his smile widened into a grin. He said in a soft, low voice that made pleasant shivers run down Margaret's spine, 'In what way, Margaret? I am afraid I do not recall.'

Margaret was a very patient teacher.


	4. He Was Her Lover?

**A/N:** Hi guys – bit of a longer chapter this time; there was a lot to get through. Kudos to those who spot the _Far From the Madding Crowd _reference! Hope you all like it – please review and tell me what you think!

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**Chapter Four – He Was Her Lover?**

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That morning during breakfast, Margaret suddenly felt a shoeless foot on her own. It was fortunate that she had not been taking a bite or sip of anything at that moment, or she probably would have choked on it. She flushed a little as she shot a glance at Mr. Thornton who was sitting opposite her intently regarding his plate, a carefully innocent expression on his face.

Her colour heightened as the foot moved further up her leg and she gave a stifled squeak. Mrs. Thornton glanced at her curiously, looking rather concerned. 'Are you quite well, Margaret? You appear rather flushed.'

Margaret stiffly shook her head, her voice rather higher than usual. 'I am perfectly well, Mrs. Thornton.' When her mother-in-law wasn't looking, she shot a glare at Mr. Thornton who only gave her a look of puzzled hurt and indignation which she was certain was entirely feigned. _Well, two can play at this game,_ she thought, a smile that could only be called wicked coming across her face.

She lifted one foot out of its slipper and serenely took a sip of tea as she pushed her foot up his pant leg. To her everlasting satisfaction, he choked on the piece of toast he had been chewing and started to cough.

Perhaps it was a good thing for all of them that at that moment a servant entered bearing a letter for her.

Curiously, she detached a note that had come with it. 'The note's from Papa,' she said, surprised. 'He sent the letter on from Crampton.' Then her face drained of all colour as she recognized the familiar handwriting on the envelope.

Mrs. Thornton was intrigued. 'It is from someone who has not yet heard of your marriage,' she observed, referring to the front of the envelope, which was addressed to 'Margaret Hale'. Mr. Thornton's foot was withdrawn from her leg.

'It is from a distant relative of mine.' Then Margaret suddenly stood up, still clutching the letter in her hand. 'I beg you will excuse me. You were right, Mrs. Thornton – suddenly I do not feel so well.' Without another word, she walked out of the room.

Fanny watched curiously as she left. 'What on earth was that all about?'

Mrs. Thornton cast a darkly significant look at her son which he tried to ignore as he strove to finish his toast which seemed to have suddenly acquired the taste and texture of cardboard. Finally giving up, he threw down his napkin as well. 'I really must be off to the mill,' he said.

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That evening, Margaret waited in the sitting room for Mr. Thornton to return so that they could eat supper together. Although she had a book in her hands, all her thoughts were on the letter she had received from Fred that morning. Dated from a week ago, it had been sent from London to tell her that he had arrived safely and that he and Henry Lennox were working on his case. He had also added that he would soon be off to Spain to see if he could gather some witnesses, but did not say exactly when he would leave.

While she was glad that he was trying to achieve his freedom, she was terrified that he would be discovered and tried before his case was ready. She did not want to lose her only sibling, her adored elder brother. She pulled the letter out of her sleeve and perused it again, abandoning her book. She wondered at the address to 'Margaret Hale'. Of course, Fred could not possibly have attended her wedding, but surely he would have known of it from Henry? But then again, maybe that was not so likely.

Hearing Mr. Thornton's footsteps approaching, she hurriedly folded it up and stuffed it back into her sleeve. Although she feared he had observed the latter action, his expression did not change except for a slight tautness in the lines around his mouth. However he made no comment on it, so she allowed herself to relax.

Supper was once more eaten in silence, but it was not the companionable silence of last night. There was a tension in the air while they ate. Mr. Thornton's jealous imagination was running riot as he saw once more in his mind's eye Margaret embracing the man from the station, connecting that man with the Lennox fellow who had been troubling her at their wedding. The return address, he had seen that morning, was from London – and was not that Lennox a London man?

Margaret knew nothing of his dark thoughts, but was feeling the first stabs of guilt at concealing something so important from him. He had been so kind to her that she really could not be so dishonest with him and not be tortured by her conscience. Mr. Thornton was a good man – surely she could trust him with Fred's secret?

But then again, he was a magistrate. Even if he promised not to tell, she did not want to burden him with the guilt that concealing such a truth would give him. Finally she decided not to tell him for the present, when Fred was still in the country.

That night Mr. Thornton's good night to her was merely verbal and when they lay down, his back was turned to her. She sighed and blinked her prickling eyes rapidly – she felt simultaneously disappointed that he had broken what she had hoped would be the pattern of good-night wishes that he had started the previous evening, and ashamed at herself for feeling so.

Mr. Thornton was very far from stupid – he could tell that she was concealing something from him, she knew it. But what could she do? She could not tell him the truth just yet and for Fred's sake she was willing to bear the brunt of his displeasure.

Fanny was the only Thornton who slept at all well that night.

* * *

'You're out late.' To his grim satisfaction, she started at the sound and a brief look of guilt flashed across her face before she regained composure.

'I was meeting someone.'

His face was stony and his voice cold. 'The distant relative who sent you that letter?'

The battle spirit rose in her eyes and she stuck out her chin in the old manner of proud defiance. 'As it happens, yes. What of it?'

He stood abruptly from his seat and advanced a few steps towards her. Although her eyes widened slightly, there was no other change in her countenance. 'That's funny.' His voice was dangerously soft and falsely light. 'I thought I met all your relatives at our wedding, but something tells me I haven't met this one.'

She said nothing in reply. He dropped all pretence of lightness. 'Show me that letter.'

Her eyes flashed and she raised herself to her full height. 'I will not. It was not addressed to you and you have no business reading it.'

His voice rose in anger. 'Show it to me!'

She regarded him contemptuously for a moment, unfazed by this outburst. 'Very well. I suppose I should expect no less from _you_.' Reaching into her sleeve, she withdrew the letter and threw it into his face.

Although his eyes blazed and his colour heightened at the insult, his face slowly became whiter with each word he read, his anger draining out of him to be replaced by a sick fear. 'The man at the station… you're leaving?'

She looked at him and laughed, her luminous eyes filled with malice. Never had she looked more cruel or more beautiful. 'Yes, that's right. I'm leaving with him.'

His voice was hoarse and sounded weak and small to his own ears. 'But… what about me?'

Her beautiful lip curled in disdain. 'What _about _you? You are nothing to me! I love _him_. He is more to me than you ever were, or are, or could be!' With those careless words, each of which was a fresh stab to Mr. Thornton's poor, sorely abused heart, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room.

'_Margaret!'_

Mr. Thornton sat bolt upright in his bed, arm outstretched, drenched in sweat and shaking. His glance darted to his left and he let out a sigh of relief as he took in Margaret's sleeping form, willing his heart rate to return to a normal level. Lying down again, he tossed and turned for what seemed like hours before finally falling into a fitful slumber.

* * *

The next morning, in consequence of several sleepless hours of tossing and turning in the early part of the night, Margaret rose late; by the time she went down to breakfast, Mr. Thornton and his mother had almost finished. Just before she entered the room she heard their low, earnest voices; it almost sounded as if they were arguing. They stopped their conversation as soon as she entered the room and she pretended not to notice the sudden silence and the grave faces of her new husband and mother-in-law. No foot was felt on her leg at this breakfast.

That night, after an entire day of enduring Mrs. Thornton's unusual brusqueness of manner towards her (she had hardly been this curt since before the wedding), Margaret was secretly relieved when her mother-in-law retired for the night earlier than usual. And with Fanny gone upstairs to practice piano for a while and then to go to bed, Margaret could finally have a moment's peace.

After making sure supper was ready for herself and Mr. Thornton, she paced the room restlessly, in need of some employment to take up her thoughts. This was the problem: when in company, she wanted to be alone; and when alone she felt she could do with some company. Glancing at the clock, she sighed. There were still two hours before Mr. Thornton usually returned – not that he was wonderful company at the moment, being – rightfully, she knew – angry with her for her concealment.

Suddenly, an idea flashed through her mind – why not pay a visit to Bessy Higgins? It was late to go out visiting, to be sure, but she was desperately in need of someone to talk to, someone who knew about Fred, and she had not been to the Higgins' since that tearful visit of a week or so ago, the day before her wedding.

With this endeavour in mind, she went upstairs for her hat and coat.

* * *

When Mr. Thornton arrived home that evening, his heart sank as he took in the empty drawing room. No Margaret. Confirmation from Jane turned this suspicion into certainty; the young Mrs. Thornton had gone out some one and a half hours previously and had yet to return.

Twenty minutes Mr. Thornton restlessly paced up and down the room – unknowingly tracing out his wife's steps earlier that evening – before he heard the front door open.

'You're out late,' he observed dryly. She started, just as she had in his dream, although she looked pale and drawn rather than coloured with a flush of guilt.

'I was meeting someone.' Dear God, this could not be happening – it _would _not happen! He would not utter the next words of his dream; he refused to live his worst nightmare.

He waited for her to speak, but it appeared that that was all the information she was going to volunteer. Gritting his teeth, he discarded his resolution of not speaking; however, fighting against his inner turmoil, he managed to keep his voice impassive and cold. 'Might I ask whom you went to visit, by yourself, so late at night?'

Although normally Margaret would have railed instinctively at his manner, today she had neither the spirits nor the energy. 'I went to visit my friend Bessy Higgins. I found on arriving that she had died earlier today. I took Nicholas to talk to my father to prevent him from drinking himself senseless. Forgive me – my visit took longer than I expected.' Her voice was listless and her eyes unseeing.

Mr. Thornton could have kicked himself. Great brute that he was, he had not only lost his faith in her maidenly virtue and her fidelity, but he had been speaking in such a cruel, cold way to her, his beloved Margaret, when she was in grief for her closest friend in Milton.

In a split second and two great strides he was at her side and had taken her into his arms. 'Margaret, I am _so _sorry.' He was as much apologizing for his manner as he was offering his earnest condolences for her loss. Even she, in her state of numb grief could see that he was desperately sincere.

He slowly led her over to the sofa so that they could sit down. He said nothing more, but simply held her close. And although no tears fell and she did not return his embrace, she did not move except to settle herself more comfortably in the warm haven of his arms.


	5. Dilemma

**A/N:** A huge thank you to everyone who reviewed. I'll thank the anonymous reviewers here, because I couldn't personally thank them: Leslie, Chris01, luvthorn, Annaflower and the person who left no name, but gave me a gorgeous long review. Thank you all so much for taking the time to review, and you guys really made my day!

Now onto chapter five – please tell me any thoughts you have in a review!

* * *

**Chapter Five – Dilemma**

* * *

If only that closeness and comfort had lasted out the night! Come morning, Mr. Thornton, although more gentle in view of her recent loss, was hardly less distant than he had been previously. Still he rushed off to the mill at the earliest possible hour, still he did not return for luncheon and probably he would still be late home again that evening. It was her fault, she knew, but she wished that they could return to their former position of antagonistic friendship, for a friend was what she found she regarded him as, realizing the worth of his company only when it was retracted.

This was what she had feared marriage to the cold, rational entrepreneur would be like – although she had not imagined that the fault would be hers. She had taken a certain morbid pleasure in the idea of her father and Mr. Bell humbly acknowledging their grave error of judgment when they saw how she bore the ill-treatment and neglect of her husband without complaint. Of course, these ridiculous fancies had been the work of a rare tearful night of allowing herself to wallow in self-pity before her wedding. The reality of her married life was much better and yet much worse than her imaginings. Mr. Thornton was of course much kinder and more considerate than she had ever given him credit for, but it was awful to know that their relationship was constrained the way it was because of her.

She sighed, trying to clear her aching head and pay attention to what her sister-in-law was telling her about the people they were going to call upon later that afternoon: a family called Watson, two sisters and their mother and a manufacturer brother who lived in his own house closer to his mill, but who would be visiting when they called. However, it was hard to muster up any interest in yet another social visit when she would rather be alone with her thoughts. Thankfully, Fanny preferred to conduct the majority of the conversation by herself and no reply was expected from Margaret except for the occasional nod and 'Hmm'.

'... and the Miss Watsons have the most magnificent piano – they're both such accomplished musicians!'

Margaret gave her a small smile, adding, as the flow of praise for the Watsons seemed to come to a standstill, 'And so are you, from what I've heard, Fanny. Perhaps before we leave you might play something for me? I am very fond of music.' Nothing could have raised Margaret more in her sister-in-law's estimation than such a wish. She would be delighted to, and they moved at once to the music room upstairs.

In this way the time passed until the hour of their departure arrived. Margaret wished she did not have to go – today she would rather be alone to nurse her aching head and delve into her memories of Bessy. Her headache must have looked as bad as it felt, for even Mrs. Thornton (who had striven, Margaret noticed, to be as stern and forbidding as possible since she had received Fred's letter two days ago) noticed and commented on it, not entirely able to hide the concern in her voice. Margaret did not know, but Mrs. Thornton was beginning to suspect that Margaret was that welcome sort of 'unwell' which often befell newly married young women, and accordingly, her patience and sympathy were more readily given.

'Really, Miss Hale, you look wretchedly pale and tired. I think perhaps you would do better to stay at home and rest – we will make your excuses to the Watsons.' For the first time in a few days, Margaret saw the stern, rigid face soften a little. Although, she noted with wry amusement, she was still 'Miss Hale' – as Mrs. Thornton had taken to calling her lately. Obviously 'Margaret' was too familiar for her, and 'Mrs. Thornton' too strange.

Gratefully accepting this reprieve, she remained to see the other two ladies out of the house. It had not been half an hour after they had left when the doorbell rang. Margaret was wondering with not a little curiosity what could bring them back so soon when Jane entered, curtseying. 'There's a police inspector here, ma'am, and he wishes to speak with you.'

What little colour half an hour's rest had restored to her face drained out of it, leaving it more ashen and bloodless than before. With an effort, she kept her composure, trying to sound indifferent. 'Send him in, Jane,' was all she said.

* * *

The good news was, it was nothing to do with Fred's true identity. The bad news was, there was nothing else good about it. That man, Leonards, who had approached Fred at the station that day was dead and had been dead for approximately two weeks, having died some time after that encounter. The inspector suspected that the blow had caused the death, and was now searching for the man seen walking out at the station with a lady who matched her description remarkably accurately. There was even a witness, a grocer's boy, who was sure the lady was her.

Leonards had gotten up and walked off, still cursing at Fred, she remembered – surely such an insignificant push had not caused his death? Surely this charge of manslaughter was false? But false or not, Margaret quickly realized with a pang of dread, it wouldn't matter. If Fred were hauled up for questioning about this and his true identity was discovered, he would be tried and hanged for sure! She could not let that happen to Fred – to the brother who had risked so much to be by their mother's side at _her _request. If only she could be sure that he was safe and out of the country – but his last letter had been written from London, intimating only that he would 'soon' leave for Spain.

Her only option had been to resort to what she detested most – she had been forced to lie. The inspector had coolly observed her, noting down her words on his notepad; then he had informed her that there would have to be an inquest in the case, and that she would be required to repeat her denial in court.

After his departure her headache returned with a vengeance.

* * *

Mr. Thornton was deep in thought, his brow a thunderhead of moody contemplation, his mind far from the figures laid out on his desk before him as he gripped his pen tightly in his hand. Inspector Mason's visit had served to fix his thoughts on the one topic he had been trying, without much success, not to dwell upon: Margaret and the man at the station.

What did it all mean? First he had seen the reserved and proper Miss Hale embracing a strange man late at night at the train station; then he had observed her receipt of a mysterious letter; and now he had heard that she had lied about her presence at the station (for a lie it was, he knew that), all to protect that wretched, elegant, handsome, most fortunate of men. There was no doubt in his mind now that Miss Hale and the man had had some attachment before she had been forced to marry him – that they were still in contact and that Miss Hale still loved him so much that she was prepared to lie to protect him.

What else could explain the loving looks of shared confidence, the tender embrace he had witnessed? The letter and her lie? His grip on his pen tightened until his knuckles turned white and he gritted his teeth. That lie – the lie from the normally upright and truthful Margaret; what dreadful fear, what strong love must have forced her into it?

_Oh Margaret, couldn't you have loved me? Couldn't you have given me a chance? I may not be the gentleman you desire, I may only be a rough, hard fellow, but I would never have led you into falsehood for me!_

The pen in his fingers snapped, splattering his fingers and new white shirt with ink. Mother wouldn't be happy, was his first thought, and then he could have laughed at its triviality. Who cared about a couple of ink stains when there were much more important matters to turn his thoughts to? He had ordered Mason not to proceed with the inquest immediately, but to wait until he heard from him.

And now he was placed in an extremely awkward position. Should he lie about this and save Margaret the indignity of having her falsehood exposed in court, or should he do nothing and allow the woman he loved – his _wife – _to suffer the consequences of her deception?

The second option was not an option at all. Mind made up, Mr. Thornton rose immediately, not bothering to change his shirt, to pay a visit to the coroner for further investigation.


	6. Out of Tune

**A/N: **Hi everyone – the next few months are going to be quite busy for me (exams are looming!), so the gaps between updates might get a bit longer. I'll try my best to keep going at my current rate, but we'll see. Just, don't assume I've given up on it if there's a bit of a gap in the next few months – I am still working on it, I promise.

A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed (especially those who have been reviewing every chapter – you don't know how ridiculously happy this makes me); also thank you to the anonymous reviewers: Chris01, Annaflower, Deb and Emma Stuart. Hope you all enjoy this chapter (I hope I need not add, review and tell me what you think)!

* * *

**Chapter Six – Out of Tune**

* * *

Margaret felt her luck, if in nothing else, then in the fact that Inspector Mason chose to visit again at that convenient time when her mother-in-law and Fanny had retired for the night, but Mr. Thornton had not yet returned from the mill. Meeting the Inspector when she was alone at least got rid of the necessity of coming up with a good explanation for his visits. She was not sure she would be able to think up a story even if she had wanted to; one lie was enough.

As the Inspector shuffled his notes, she tried to stand tall and proud, tried to look unaffected, tried in short, not to show her fear. 'Well?' she inquired coldly, after a sufficient interval of silence had passed.

The man sighed. 'There is, after all, to be no inquest in the Leonards case, ma'am. I have Mr. Thornton's note here.' He held out a sheet of paper for her to take.

'Mr. Thornton!' Margaret had not been able to stop the bewildered exclamation. Taking the note, she did not read it, but stared at the Inspector for confirmation.

'That's right, ma'am. Mr. Thornton is a magistrate in the case.' He regarded her intently as she read the note, although her face to him – a stranger to her – seemed as impassive as ever. 'It turns out that the man's death was not, after all, caused by violence as we first suspected. Further medical examination revealed an advanced internal complaint caused due to excessive drinking.'

It was true, luckily for the Thorntons, Inspector Mason thought to himself wryly. Still, dedicated and honest policeman that he was, he had a nasty suspicion that even if it hadn't been true and Mr. Thornton had lied to save his wife, _he _would have let it pass – would have forgone justice in this case for the man who had gotten him his position on the force – the man to whom he owed a great deal. He was thankful that he had not been tested.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice the almost imperceptible shaking of her hands as she returned the note to him, did not notice the slight tremble in her voice as she bid him good day, did not notice the suspicious brightness in her eyes which told of unshed tears as she turned away.

* * *

Autumn was nearing to a close, and winter was fast approaching. Winter in Milton was a bleak time indeed. If the city was normally cloudy and grey in other seasons, it was never anything but in winter – gone was the tentative sunlight of autumn. There was no respite – the cold was sharp, biting and all-pervading.

People who could afford to do so remained in their homes and hardly stirred from their firesides. Those who had to work continued to do so, but spent as little time outdoors as possible, hurrying from their homes to the mills and back in record time, teeth chattering violently all the while. A spate of illness brought on by the season made Dr. Donaldson the most sought-after man in Milton, and those who could not afford his fees languished for want of medical attention.

However, winter was good for business, and if the cold induced more people to buy cotton, and rendered a higher demand for the products of his mill, then Mr. Thornton was willing to bear it – nay, he would even welcome it.

Although he confided in nobody, he was worried about the mill. The eventful strike of a few months ago had placed a great strain on all the mills, but none more so than Thornton's. He had been forced to turn away over one hundred of his most skilled workers to replace them with Irish hands who had to be taught everything and whose mangled products were often unfit for selling from a mill that prided itself on the quality of the cotton it produced.

And this reduced productivity at a time when he desperately needed to fulfill some large contracts! At a time when he needed money in order to regain the capital he had invested in new machinery and cotton bought in bulk. It was a precarious position that the business was in, and Mr. Thornton was well aware that he would have to manage it very carefully, as there was no small risk that he would have to close down otherwise.

He was at the mill even earlier than usual, stayed there all day and returned home even later in the evenings. Worry for all that he had worked for for so many years was the only thing more often in his thoughts than Margaret and the man at the station. He threw himself ever deeper into his work.

* * *

Although the time of Mr. Thornton's return from the mill grew later and later, Margaret doggedly persisted in their routine of her waiting for his return to eat and go to bed. No matter how hungry or tired she was, she would sit up in the drawing room, their supper growing cold on the table. It was only after she had actually fallen asleep while waiting one time that she had found herself the next morning in her bed, Mr. Thornton having left for the mill already, with a note from him beside her. In it he simply stated that as he would be so late quite often these days because the mill required his attention more than ever now, she should not wait up for him, but should take supper with the rest of the family and then retire early.

Here was a wretched, miserable confirmation then! Previously she had refused to think that he was avoiding her purposely, but what else could this note mean? He wished to see as little of her as possible – he was now making it so that they did not see each other the whole day. He was so disgusted with her for lying that he wanted nothing more to do with her! Oh yes – she saw how he must view her: she was a coward, a liar; she was what she – and she knew he as well – despised the most. And yet he had still saved her from having to repeat her falsehood in court, from being exposed as a liar – why had he done it? She almost hated him for it – hated him for doing something which made her so painfully grateful to him.

She wanted to talk to him, she wanted to face him, she wanted to be able to look him in the eye without flinching. How she wished she could explain everything to him – what she would not give that she could be open and honest – how she hated this concealment!

But – and this was what kept her going, and it was a fact she needed to remind herself of constantly – it was necessary for Fred's safety. He might not be out of the country yet, and she was determined that _she _would not be the one to place him in any danger. For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her fist, and then she slowly opened it as if releasing dust or ash. She would stand fast to her purpose, no matter how much heartache it brought her.

* * *

Fanny Thornton would never be able to understand why the announcement of her engagement to Mr. Watson, a leading manufacturer and extremely wealthy man, did not cause more stir in her family. While her mother at least _tried_ to muster up some excitement, her grump of a brother had simply congratulated her once, and even that had been given almost grudgingly after she had prompted him to do so. And as for her sister-in-law!

Fanny, who had just been beginning to like her for her appreciation of good musical talent, could not have found herself more mistaken in the bestowing of her sisterly regard. Why, she had hardly paused in her occupation of staring at Fanny's brother (who seemed intentionally or unintentionally oblivious of the scrutiny he was under) to give a hurried congratulations which Fanny was sure was entirely insincere. No doubt Miss Hale was turning green inside at the thought that Fanny, her junior by a whole year, had managed to snag for herself a man who was twice as wealthy as John. Still, she could have at least _pretended_ to be happy for her.

Really, but Fanny was beginning to feel she would be quite glad to leave this house where the news of her engagement hardly made her the centre of attention even for a few minutes before the conversation moved on to other subjects. Watson would lavish her with attention, she was sure – and his sisters positively doted on her. Huffing, she returned to her embroidery.

Although Fanny was sure the Thorntons' lack of enthusiasm was to spite her, if she had been a little more observant, she might have guessed that their thoughts were rather more occupied with other things. Mother and son were concerned about the mill, and their worries extended also to a mysterious stranger at a train station and a secret letter while the wife was making herself miserable with thoughts of how degraded she must be in her husband's opinion and praying that this farce would not have to go on for much longer.


	7. Master and Man

**A/N:** Managed to get this chapter finished and done on time, but you might have to wait three weeks instead of two for chapter eight, unfortunately. Real life is getting very busy here, and much as I'd love to live in fanfic world instead, RL is very demanding and must be attended to first.

Once again, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed so far – I really, really appreciate every single one. I love that you can be honest with me and give me concrit, and tell me when you feel something isn't quite right. I do try to take it on board. Thanks to the anonymous reviewers: Chris01, sangita and toffeema – it's much appreciated!

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Seven – Master and Man**

* * *

The next morning, Margaret, keen to give both herself and Mrs. Thornton a respite from each other's company, made her way back to her former home in Crampton to visit her father. The last few times she had visited, when she was still in the fresh misery of knowing herself to have fallen in Mr. Thornton's opinion, her pale, sad face had worried her father, despite her constant assurances that Mr. Thornton was very kind and gentlemanly. She was hoping that if she could put up a better pretence of cheerfulness now that she was somewhat more resigned to having Mr. Thornton thinking badly of her, her father's worries might be assuaged.

Perhaps after this visit she would stop by Princeton and call on the Higginses. As she was given a warm welcome by Dixon and shown into the sitting room, she was delighted to see Nicholas already there talking to her father. It had been some weeks now since Bessy's death, and although he was rather thinner and paler than before, he seemed to have regained that sense of purpose which was such a distinctive quality of these Milton men. 'Nicholas!' she cried and gave him an impulsive hug. 'How are you?' she asked quickly, as soon as she let him go. 'How is Mary? Are you both well?'

Higgins, who had chuckled at her enthusiastic greeting, grew more serious. 'Ay, we're holding up alrigh'.'

Mr. Hale, overcoming his palpable relief at Margaret's more cheerful manner, invited them both to sit again. 'Margaret, Mr. Higgins came to ask me if I could help him find work down South.'

Margaret's surprise showed on her face. 'Down South? But whatever for?'

Mr. Hale prompted her memory. 'You remember, Margaret, I told you when you last visited of that man Boucher's… well, his suicide.'

Margaret nodded slowly, still rather confused. 'Well, a few days later,' continued Mr. Hale, 'his wife passed away as well, leaving their six young children orphans. Nicholas here has taken them on himself.'

Mr. Hale would have added more in praise of Nicholas' generosity, and Nicholas perhaps sensed this, for he somewhat hurriedly began to speak. 'That's right. And since I've heard you often talk grand o' the South, I thought I might go there to get work, where wages are good, food is cheap and people friendly.'

Margaret's words were immediate and their fervor surprised the two men, given her previous defenses of the South. 'Nicholas, you mustn't leave Milton for the South; you could not bear the dullness of life there – it would eat away at you like rust. The labour is more strenuous, the pay much the same, and the people are so tired after the day's work is done that they care for nothing other than food and rest. The sameness of their toil robs their brains of life, and deadens their imaginations. Pray, think no more of it, Nicholas. Have you tried to find work here in Milton?'

Higgins' face darkened. 'Ay, but no master'd take on a turn-out such as me, and a union leader to boot.'

After he had continued in this vein for some time, Margaret voiced a thought that had been in her mind for a while. 'Nicholas, have you been to Marlborough Mills for work?'

He snorted contemptuously. 'Ay, I've been to Thornton's. The overlooker told me to go away sharpish.'

Margaret continued in her appeal, her voice earnest. 'But could you not talk to Mr. Thornton himself? I should be so glad if you would. He is a good man; I am sure, once he hears of your situation, he would –'

Nicholas interrupted her. 'I don't think it'll be o' any use – there'll be more chance o' getting milk from a flint.' Then seeing her countenance, which showed her determination to disagree with him on this point, he sighed. 'But, I'll go because yo' ask it, Miss Margaret.'

Margaret smiled. 'Thank you, Nicholas. I'll speak to him for you.'

Nicholas scratched his head, trying to think of a way to phrase his thoughts without offending her. 'Begging yo'r pardon, Miss, but I'd rather go myself. Meddling between master and man is like meddling between husband and wife more'n anything – no good'll come of it.' He stood, and shaking Mr. Hale's hand and nodding to Margaret, took his leave.

'He is a proud man,' remarked Margaret, both amused and annoyed at his manner of declining her help. Her mind was not on the conversation with her father as he told her of Mr. Bell's asking after her in his last letter from London, where he had gone for a business trip. Instead it was racing with possible courses of action. Surely if she applied to Mr. Thornton herself it could not hurt Nicholas' cause? Surely her word would grant Nicholas a hearing at the very least? But Nicholas had declined her help; he had all but called it an interference. Her mind was still in a state of indecision as she took leave of the house in Crampton and slowly began the two mile walk to Marlborough Street.

* * *

A day passed without Margaret having done anything about Nicholas' predicament. A part of her was worried that her word would count for nothing with Mr. Thornton, that any influence she might have was all wishful thinking and imagining on her part.

She tried to suppress the small voice in her head which told her this was true; she had never stood back from doing the what she thought was right because of apprehensions or fears before, and she would not now. Mind made up, Margaret resolutely put down her sewing and made her way to the kitchens.

* * *

The last person Mr. Thornton had expected to knock and enter his office after his terse reply of 'Come in' was his wife, and bearing a tea tray of all things. Before he had really had time to react, she set it down and seated herself. 'I thought you might be hungry,' she said softly by way of explanation, and Mr. Thornton realized that she was right. Of late he had been too busy to take more than breakfast at the start of the day and supper at the end of it; he had not recognized the dull gnawing at his insides to be hunger until food was before him. She had realized this before he had, and had sought to remedy it. Mr. Thornton's lips curved upwards slightly.

As she busied herself with pouring the tea, he was again seized with the longing to make her do what he had seen her do for her father once, and take her small hand in his own large one to use her fingers as sugar tongs. And why not, he asked himself suddenly. Why not, as he was now her husband and had a right? He was almost about to act on his impulse when another memory of those dainty hands was brought forth into his consciousness; the memory of those hands wrapped around another man's neck, bringing him flush to her…

He merely took the cup from her with a gruff word of thanks. He took a sip of the steaming liquid and immediately felt more refreshed. Perhaps he should not miss meals so often. 'Mr. Thornton,' she began hesitantly, and he looked at her curiously, waiting for her to go on. 'Mr. Thornton, I wished to talk to you about something.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Oh?'

'Well, that is,' she continued a little more confidently, 'I wished to ask you for something.'

Immediately his face darkened. So that was what the tea was for, to placate him, to bribe him into agreeing to give her whatever she had come for. A few minutes ago, he had not known what to make of her seeking him out and thinking of him, but now he wished she had stayed away.

Margaret felt a little irritated as she saw the telltale cloud come over his face. Honestly, she hadn't even said _what_ she wanted yet and already he was looking as if to give her anything or humour her whims was like cutting off his right hand. She forced herself to remain calm and not lose her temper; it would only hurt Nicholas' chances if she did. Making as if she didn't notice his suddenly stern expression, she plunged ahead. 'There's a friend of mine – Nicholas Higgins – who is looking for work. He has tried getting employment at Hamper's – where he used to work before the strike, I believe – and several other mills in town, but nobody will give him a chance. He's been here as well, but was sent off by the overlooker – I thought if you knew about it, you might –'

'I might what?' he broke in. 'Give work to one of the leaders of the union? Give work to a man whose strike forced me to turn away a hundred of my best hands for following him? Give him work just so that he can save up money for another strike? Margaret, I might as well go and set fire to the cotton waste.'

Margaret shook her head, her eyes burning with the strength of her conviction. 'Mr. Thornton, I _know_ he'd not just ask for work so that he could ruin you; in fact in the days of the strike he was able to survive by running errands and odd jobs – and I know he would continue doing that if he did not now have six small children to take care of in addition to his own daughter!'

Mr. Thornton scoffed. 'Yes, he did say something about that. A likely story – the hands will say anything when they're desperate for work. They're all in the habit of inventing extra family members to play on the sympathy of the masters when they're looking for a job.'

Margaret looked as if she'd been slapped as his first sentence registered. '"He said something about that"? You… you mean, he's already come here? And you…' Shock was soon replaced by anger and her eyes flashed in fury, both at him and at herself, for being so foolish as to imagine qualities in him which she could now see that he was entirely without. Her voice was icy when she next spoke. 'I wish I'd never told him to come here; I don't know what I was thinking. I thought you might understand, as a _gentleman_ would –'

Mr. Thornton stood suddenly, a muscle leaping in his clenched jaw. Without a word, he started to stride towards the door.

Margaret was caught by surprise and her voice when it came was rather less decisive and firm than she would have liked, sounding instead rather bewildered. 'What – where are you going? I still have something to say –'

For an instant he paused by the door. Then he turned and snapped, 'I am afraid I do not have the time at present to listen to another lecture on my gentility or lack of it. I have a mill to run, madam.'

And with that he turned on his heel and stormed out of his office, slamming the door as he went, leaving behind his all but untouched tea.


	8. Mistakes and Misunderstandings

**A/N:** Hi there, everyone – thank you all for being so patient and sticking with this story even though I'm so slow with updating. I really appreciate that, and I really love reading every single one of your reviews. I'd like to personally thank the anonymous reviewers here: toffeema, Chris01 and Rosdal – thank you so much for reviewing and letting me know your thoughts!

I know this chapter is a little short, but I promise you that chapter nine will be a little longer than usual to make up for it – unfortunately update time will have to be three weeks from now on, at least until my November exams are over.

Anyway – hope you enjoy, and please tell me what you think!

* * *

**Chapter Eight – Mistakes and Misunderstandings**

* * *

It took Margaret the rest of the day to fully compose herself again. She was a little ashamed of the way she had spoken to Mr. Thornton when she had lost her temper, but this little feeling of self-reproach was easily ignored as she dwelt on his contemptuous words about Nicholas and mill hands in general, his callous refusal to listen, his iron master's fist closing around his human heart and causing him to ignore any natural sense of compassion for the six little Boucher children.

Margaret sorely regretted that argument, not because she was eager for reconciliation, but because it had shown her a side to the man she had married which she did not like at all. He who had once been such a kind friend to her parents, he who had once been so tender and considerate towards her, how could he revert to the cold businessman he had been before, concerned only with profit, ignoring the plight of six helpless children?

But no, even in her anger and resentment, Margaret could see that that was not quite fair: Mr. Thornton was concerned about the consequences hiring a union leader could have on the running of the mill, but then hadn't she told him – and indeed, hadn't Nicholas told him himself – that Nicholas was doing this for those children? As her husband, Mr. Thornton should have, Margaret felt, given her words _some _deference at least – even if he did not believe what came out of the mouth of a leader of the strike.

But then were they really husband and wife in anything more than name? They did not love each other; she had been forced to marry to save her reputation, and once again he had felt compelled to marry her out of some misguided sense of obligation. They hardly saw one another from one day to the next, he was so busy at the mill; even before the afternoon's fight, they had hardly talked to each other. In addition to their lack of emotional bonding, they did not share – the blood rushed to Margaret's face even at the thought of it – a physical bond either. In what sense then were they husband and wife? Perhaps he thought of it this way too – there was no real reason why he should listen to what she said. But still if he had, she might have come to…

Perhaps he thought he could not trust anything she said after her lie. Her high colour rapidly receded. Perhaps that was it. And could she really blame him? He did not know her reasons for lying, and until she was sure of Fred's safety, she could not tell him.

But no, that couldn't be it – even if he didn't respect her word anymore, why had he not listened to Nicholas and the plight of those children? No, she decided, his behaviour could not be excused. She was thoroughly disappointed in him, and she would not hide it.

* * *

After trying unsuccessfully to complete a machine check in ten minutes and losing his temper and shouting at Williams the overlooker for something trivial, Mr. Thornton stormed back to his office and sank into his chair, finally giving into the urge to drop his head onto his arms.

_I thought you might understand, as a _gentleman _would…_

_A _gentleman_ would not have…_

_It offends me that you should speak to me as if it were your duty to rescue my reputation…_

_You should have realized, as a _gentleman_ would, that any woman would have shielded with her reverenced helplessness a man in danger from the violence of numbers…_

_Well, I do not like _you_, and never have…_

He stood abruptly and began to pace restlessly across the room. Spying the tea tray still on the desk where she had left it, he picked up the cup and took a sip, only to grimace. The tea had long gone cold, and on his empty stomach it made him feel slightly queasy. He gazed out the window at the busy mill-yard, deep in his thoughts.

That man Higgins had been waiting for over six hours to speak to him, according to Williams. This fact had made him do a double-take, and for the first time in a matter of business, Mr. Thornton doubted his own judgment. Six hours was a long time for someone to wait, doing nothing but first hoping and then fearing…

And then there was the matter which he had not fully processed at the time – the matter of Margaret vouching for the man. Perhaps it was not just a case of Higgins approaching her on the spur of the moment, trying to get the master's wife to put in a good word for him, as Thornton had first thought. Perhaps she had seen the children herself. She was in the habit of making friends with the hands, and she had mentioned that Higgins was a friend of hers…

Suddenly he recalled two crucial pieces of information.

_I was sent to ask yo' by a woman. Thought you had a kindness about yo'. But she were mistaken, and I'm not the first to be misled by a woman._

_I wish I'd never told him to come here…_

Mr. Thornton could have kicked himself. 'Fool,' he muttered furiously at himself. His ears burned as he thought of how roughly he had spoken to the man, he who had always prided himself on his fair-mindedness and good judgment.

_Oh God, what have I done?_

Pulling on his coat, Mr. Thornton walked briskly out of the office door and down into the street. He had a call to pay and an apology to make, and the sooner they were carried out the better.

* * *

Mrs. Thornton was not blind. She could clearly see that all was not right between her son and daughter-in-law. The time when Miss Hale had prepared John's favourite meal and waited up for him seemed long ago now; soon after, Mrs. Thornton had sensed a tension between them which seemed to be due to that mysterious letter which had arrived. Mrs. Thornton had at the time advised her son to confront Miss Hale about it, and ask to see the contents, but he had point-blank refused to 'invade her privacy'.

Mrs. Thornton snorted. Privacy indeed – this misplaced respect for Miss Hale's _privacy_ would lead to her son's heartbreak, she was sure of it. If only he would put a stop to this matter now, he might be able to salvage their marriage – but if he continued to turn a blind eye to her correspondence with that other lover, it would lead to the ruin of the both of them.

Then a new thought occurred to her – perhaps he had taken her advice and confronted Miss Hale already; perhaps that was why she had for the past week been treating him with a coldness that was by no means subtle or hidden, and it would certainly explain her son's air of suppressed righteous anger and occasional despondency.

At times she was sorely tempted to have a word with Miss Hale about it herself, but she had determined not to interfere. It was likely that in such a sensitive issue, she would do more harm than good. Mrs. Thornton had never made it a secret that she did not approve of Miss Hale, mainly due to the circumstance of Miss Hale rejecting her son. However, in Mrs. Thornton's eyes she had made amends for this early error of judgement by marrying John soon afterwards; but she was still not so sure of her acceptance of her daughter-in-law that she could advise her on this matter without a risk of becoming angry and resentful.

No, in this matter, it was just going to have to be up to Margaret and John to work it out for themselves. Hannah wished them luck – the way things were now, it seemed like they would need it.


	9. Husband and Wife

**A/N:** Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed – every single review gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. If you read and enjoy this, or read and have some suggestions, or simply just read it, please let me know your thoughts!

Thank you to the anonymous reviewers: Rosdal, Chris01 and ys1966 – I really appreciate it!

Exams are almost upon me (well, my first exam is less than three weeks away, and then there's a three week gap and then the rest of them come pretty much at once). I will be updating at the same speed though, because I've pre-written several chapters. With a three-week gap, I can stretch it out to after my exams, which is when I'll have to knuckle down and write more. I figure that a regular long-ish gap is better than frequent updating and then a loooong gap.

Anyway... hope you enjoy this chapter – it's a little longer than usual to make up for a short chapter 8. Please review and tell me what you think!

* * *

**Chapter Nine – Husband and Wife**

* * *

It had been a week now since the day of their argument, and Margaret was finding the house rather oppressive. When he was ever in her company, Mr. Thornton seemed not to feel her disdain, or rather, he did not seem in the least guilt-ridden or chastened by it. Instead he seemed angered by it. Margaret sighed inwardly. She was disillusioned in him once more; if he had been willing to fix his error of judgment (or if indeed, he even realised it _was _an error), she might have esteemed him more than she could now.

She wished she could confide in someone. However, she did not want to worry her father, and even if she did screw up her courage and try to talk to her mother-in-law, no doubt Mrs. Thornton would side with her son. And upset though she was at Mr. Thornton and close as she was to Edith, Margaret was still reluctant to talk ill of the man she had married to someone who didn't know him and had tried to convince her cousin not to marry a northern manufacturer; someone whose mind would dwell on her own wish that her cousin had married Henry instead, instead of producing any helpful advice.

In the end, Margaret decided that a visit to the Higgins family was in order. Even if she could not talk to them about this, at least the visit would keep her from dwelling on it. And besides, she had not seen Nicholas since that day she had visited her father. She was also curious to meet the six Boucher children he had adopted. So with these thoughts in mind, she set off to Princeton after packing a basket with such things as she thought would please six small children.

As soon as she entered, she heard Mary's glad cry and warm welcome, and felt a twinge of guilt for not having visited more often after Bessy's death. She looked around the little house and was amused at the sight of six pairs of wide eyes focused on her as they all stood shyly near Nicholas, already instinctively moving closer to him at the presence of a stranger.

Margaret dropped her hands to her knees before the children, bringing herself to their eye-level, before addressing the one who looked oldest, a wide-eyed, fair-haired lad of about seven. 'Hello,' she smiled, holding out a hand. 'I'm Margaret Hale. What's your name?'

The little boy shook her hand shyly, instantly liking the grand lady with the bright eyes and lovely smile. 'I'm Tom Boucher,' he said.

'It's a pleasure to meet you, Tom,' said Margaret kindly. 'Could you please introduce me to your brothers and sisters?'

Feeling the distinction of being thus singled out from his companions, Tom's shyness evaporated, and when he introduced each of his siblings to his new friend, it was with a distinct air of pride at being chosen from amongst all of them to do so.

Then followed a happy hour of Margaret conversing with each of the older children and playing with the younger ones until their shyness had completely disappeared and they accepted her as one of their own. Nicholas and Mary smiled to see it; Margaret really had a way with children. She managed to achieve the correct balance which saved her from being patronising, or conversely, treating them as if they were adults, which were traps many inept people fell into.

'Tom really is a bright child,' Margaret said later to Nicholas while the children noisily and happily ate their supper as Mary fussed about them, admonishing them to chew before they swallowed and not to spill any food on their clothes. Tom had told her of his keen interest in reading, and had said proudly that Nicholas was teaching him, and that he _already _knew his alphabet. He had then proceeded to recite it all beautifully, much to the admiration of his siblings and Margaret.

Nicholas smiled, looking at the lad affectionately. 'Yes, I know. I'd like to be able to give him a good education – Thornton also reckons it'd be a shame not to encourage such a promising child.'

Margaret almost choked on her sip of tea. Once she had stopped coughing, she stared at Nicholas, astonished beyond measure. '"Thornton"? My husband, Mr. Thornton?'

He nodded slowly. 'Of course, Miss. What other Mr. Thornton is there?'

Overcoming her first shock, Margaret asked eagerly, 'Then he has given you work?'

'Yes,' Nicholas said, as he drained the contents of his mug. 'Almost a week ago now, he came here in person to talk to me. He offered me work, saying he hadn't believed what I'd said about the children at firs'. Apologized and everything. Mary and I couldn't understand it – but maybe he's not such a bulldog after all.'

'No,' Margaret agreed absently, her mind elsewhere. She felt aglow with warmth as she thought of Mr. Thornton and what he had done. He had done the right thing, and she did not care if it had not been because of her influence – in fact, she respected him the more for yielding to his sense of right rather than to her. Tonight she would speak to him about it–

Then her throat constricted and her breath came with difficulty. How could she speak to him tonight? After the way she had treated him this week, talking to him only when necessary, ignoring him otherwise and neglecting to take his tea up to him as she had planned to do everyday, how could she ever approach him? How could she let him know that it had all been a huge mistake, that she knew now how wrong she had been about him?

Nicholas' concerned voice interrupted her painful reverie. 'Miss Margaret?' he said. 'Are yo' alright?'

Margaret shook herself mentally and forced herself to smile reassuringly. 'Yes, Nicholas, I'm fine. I suppose I'd better be going now – thank you for the tea, and it was lovely meeting the children.'

As she stood Nicholas rose as well. 'You know you're always welcome, Miss,' he said sincerely, and the children chimed in their hearty agreements to this statement, finally raising a genuine smile from her.

Taking leave of them all, she slowly began to make her way to Marlborough Street, making up her mind. Before she returned to the house today, she must stop by the office.

* * *

When Margaret entered his office, Mr. Thornton observed with grim satisfaction that there was no tea tray this time. _To the point today,_ he thought, his lips compressing themselves over his teeth. _Good. _'Margaret,' he said curtly, by way of greeting. 'How can I help you?' She winced a little at his manner and looked even more pale and unsure of herself than when she had first entered the room. As she began to twist her hands together in nervousness, her lips starting to tremble, Mr. Thornton began to soften in spite of himself. He could scarcely look at Margaret without dwelling on just how much he loved her, and he could not see her upset if he could prevent it, even if they were supposed to be quarrelling at the moment. 'What is it?' he said more kindly, beginning to grow rather concerned as her unready words would not come.

His brow furrowed slightly. What was she so nervous about telling him? Then his heart began to race and his mouth grew dry as an alarming possibility occurred to him – was she finally going to reveal to him the contents of that letter? Was she going to tell him that she was leaving, going to that other man?

'I... I visited Nicholas Higgins today,' she said, faltering slightly. 'He told me you've taken him on.'

'Oh.' Mr. Thornton cleared his throat, keeping his gaze levelled at the ledger on his desk, not sure what to say. He did not know whether or not to be relieved that it did not seem to pertain to the man he had seen her with at the station. 'Yes... I did.'

She bit her lip until her teeth left indents in it. Then she cried fiercely, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white, 'Could you not have _told _me?'

He looked up at her then, his anger at her beginning to return. 'What should I have done?' he snapped, striding around the edge of the desk, for the moment not caring that she flinched at his sudden advance. 'Come to you and boasted about how _magnanimous _I was in taking on the man after turning him down flat? Told you how it was only through yourinfluence that I did it?'

Margaret looked away at the window behind him, abashed. 'No, of course not,' she said quietly. 'I know well enough that you yielded only to your sense of justice – I know _I_ have no influence over you.' He looked at her, puzzled at these words, but she continued, not noticing. 'I just wish you had let me know somehow, because then I wouldn't have been so horrible to you all week. You can't imagine how awful I feel about it – if I could take it back, I would.' By now her voice was rather unsteady and her eyes were unnaturally bright, and she was still not looking at him.

He moved a step closer to her. Finally he spoke. 'It was partly due to your influence, you know,' he said softly. Margaret looked up at him then, and he understood the silent question in her eyes: _it was?_ 'You made me think twice about turning him away,' he explained. 'I knew that someone you vouched for could not be a liar.'

She flushed at this undeserved praise, her mind instantly turning to her own falsehood. Perhaps the same thought had occurred to him because he cleared his throat, and seemed to be trying to speak in a more matter-of-fact way. 'He's a good man, very hard-working; I must thank you for recommending him.'

Margaret seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then she placed a small hand over one of his own. The action sent a jolt up his spine. 'Am I to understand then, that my apology is accepted?'

He tried not to smile. 'I do not actually recall hearing the words "I am sorry".'

She flared up at once. 'Well, it's not as if you said the words "I forgive you" either,' she replied hotly, starting to remove her hand from his. He stopped her then by placing his other hand on top of hers, allowing his amusement to show. She flushed with embarrassment as she recognised his teasing for what it was, and his smile grew wider.

_What a beautiful smile,_ she thought, feeling rather dazed as she stared into his eyes. It was the first thing she had admired about him: the way it would glow out of his eyes and light up his face and lend warmth to the entire room. As she gazed at her reflection in his eyes, for a moment she could not help wishing that she really was that small, so that she could always reside in their beauty. His thumb began to trace slow circles on her hand, causing her breathing to quicken in pace. Although as she gazed at him thus entranced his smile faded, his eyes continued to glow with something Margaret could not define.

'It was good of you to give him work,' she said softly, finally breaking the silence that had descended.

It took him a second to return to earth. 'He deserved it,' he said shortly, 'and I was in need of a skilled worker.' This time she understood his terseness for what it really was – embarrassment at listening to his own praise; and so she said nothing more, but simply smiled.

'I should be going back to the house before your mother worries,' she said at length, but she made no move to withdraw her hand from his.

'Of course,' he said, and for a moment he also did not move. Then he sighed and released her hand.

She turned and began to walk to the door. She had almost reached it when for some inexplicable reason she stopped and turned around to look at him again. He was still standing in front of his desk, watching her; a delighted smile which she could not account for spread across his face and her heart lurched. Crossing the room in a few hurried strides, she hesitated for a moment before following her irresistible impulse by standing on tiptoe and briefly touching her lips to his cheek.

Then ducking her head to hide her furious blush, she hurried out of the room, the pleasant roughness of his stubble still burning on her lips.

Thornton slowly brought a hand up to his cheek. _She looked back_, he thought numbly. And then he began to smile.


	10. Men

**A/N:** Sorry that this one's a bit short. I promise chapter eleven will be longer than usual to make up for it. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, and thank you to those who reviewed anonymously: ys1966, Annaflower, Chris01, toffeema, Sadi, Rosdal, Vingamania and anonymous – I really appreciate that you all took the time to review!

Hope you guys enjoy this one – please tell me what you think!

* * *

**Chapter Ten – Men**

* * *

Mr. Thornton gathered together a copy of the accounts for the month and put them in an envelope, sighing. No good news to send to Mr. Bell this month either – things were undeniably getting worse. Productivity was still reduced, and what cotton he did sell seemed to take his debtors far too long to pay him. The supply of ready money was diminished just as he needed it, and all his capital was locked up in the new machinery which had seemed like such a good investment at the time.

He jumped slightly as the horn signalling the end of the day's shift blew and then he moved to the window to watch his multitude of workers flow out, chattering loudly and, amazingly, cheerfully – all too unaware of the very real possibility of their all being out of work in a few months. He watched as they all turned for home, all of them... except for one. He discerned the fair head of little Tom Boucher, one of the children Nicholas Higgins had adopted, engrossed in a book.

He watched the boy for several minutes, then surveyed the yard worriedly. Where was Higgins? His gaze returned to the boy in time to see him shiver as an icy wind blew through the yard. Suddenly he felt guilty: here he was in his snug, well-heated office while that boy...

Making up his mind, he strode out of the door and walked briskly into the yard.

* * *

That was how, as he went up there in a state of worry for the missing child, hoping to find some information, Nicholas Higgins found the two in the master's office, Tom reading aloud and Thornton prompting him every time he faltered. 'A-ni-mal,' Thornton was saying slowly, sounding out the syllables.

As Nicholas entered the room, Thornton looked up at the sound, and the relaxed, almost friendly expression on the normally stern master's face caught him off-guard. Nicholas had nothing to fear however, because as Thornton stood up and folded his arms across his chest, his familiar stern 'master' expression was back. 'Why are you so late? Shift finished an hour ago.' He narrowed his eyes, and Nicholas had to suppress his smile at the suspicion that seemed almost forced. 'What are you upto?'

'Just stayed to finish off the bale I was working on,' he said lightly.

Thornton sighed heavily, running a hand over his eyes. 'I can't pay you over your time, you know,' he said, and he sounded tired.

Nicholas shrugged. 'I reckon I'm not the only one working over my time,' he said, glancing meaningfully at the paperwork strewn over the desk and the still-open ink bottle.

Thornton sat down again, gesturing vaguely that Nicholas should take a seat also, which he did. 'It has to be done,' Thornton said wearily. 'The mill must overcome the difficulties of the market. It has to.' Then he added, so softly that Nicholas had to lean forward a little to hear it, 'The mill is everything.'

'To me too,' he admitted quietly. Thornton looked at him sharply then, something of scepticism in his face. Nicholas felt the need to clarify. 'The lives of my children depend on the success of the mill – it's not like I'd get work anywhere else in town,' he added, with less bitterness than would have been in his voice only a few short weeks ago; now he was just stating a fact.

Thornton nodded, apparently satisfied at his reason. 'It must be difficult to be responsible for so many people,' he said, nodding towards young Tom.

Nicholas snorted. 'Think of yourself,' he said, 'you could say we all depend on you.' Then he grinned. 'No pressure.'

Thornton smiled in spite of himself. Contrary to all expectations, it seemed he and Nicholas Higgins would get along quite well together.

* * *

'So he said that you might be able to establish a dining hall for the workers?' Margaret asked eagerly, eyes shining. 'That was very good of him,' she added quietly, almost to herself.

Nicholas tried not to smile. For the past half hour they had been talking of nothing but Mr. Thornton, mainly because of Margaret's constant stream of questions. He had been at first grimly cynical at the thought that a marriage between the ruthlessly ambitious master and the compassionate, idealistic girl could work, especially with no love apparent on either side, and had wondered at Mr. Hale's recklessness. But now he had to concede that the old man had either known what he was doing, or else had made a very lucky mistake, because the glow which came over Margaret's face whenever she spoke of her husband was the same which was evident in that man's countenance whenever her name was mentioned. And it seemed, Thornton was not quite the old bulldog he'd once thought him; in fact, Nicholas would go so far as to say that there was probably no other man in Milton more worthy of Margaret's hand.

'I don't know what to make of him,' he admitted aloud. 'He actually seemed interested in what I had to say, and although I can't say as I agree with everything he thinks about unions and knobsticks, I can say this – he's not an ordinary master.' Coming from Nicholas, this was a compliment of epic proportions.

Margaret's lips quirked upwards for an instant before she adopted a serious face. 'Careful, Nicholas,' she said, her tone matching her expression to perfection. 'Don't let the union hear you say that.'

Nicholas rolled his eyes, smiling. It was good to see this side of Margaret again; he hadn't known her to smile and tease like this since before Bessy's death, God rest her soul. 'I've looked over the old outhouse,' he said, 'and I reckon we could fit it up to be a proper place to dine – all it needs is a little cleaning up, and a few benches and a bit of a kitchen installed.'

Eyes lighting up at the prospect of a project, Margaret immediately spoke her mind. 'I'm helping,' she said firmly.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. 'Maybe yo' should ask Thornton first,' he suggested. After all, it was not normal for master's wives to be joining in with the workers' labour. But then again it was far from normal for them to visit and make friends with the aforementioned workers as well.

Margaret shook her head and smiled. 'It's my way of showing support for his venture. He'll understand.' The confidence with which she said this offered Nicholas yet another proof that Margaret and Thornton were a couple uncommon in their perfect trust in one another. He had never seen, he reflected, a couple between whom such a pure and true understanding existed.


	11. Communication

**A/N:** I haven't forgotten about this story! Soon I will start updating a little quicker, rest assured. Thank you to everyone for reviewing – it never gets old receiving reviews, and there's no such thing as too many of them. Thank you to the anonymous reviewers: Margot, Chris01, Nocturne and Rosdal.

Now for two reasons I am going to plead for reviews – 1) this chapter is a little longer than usual, and 2) I have an English exam tomorrow (3 hours, 3 essays, could potentially be life-changing if I mess it up) – I am going to need some cheering up, and nothing better than reviews for that purpose.

So... if you've been holding out on me thus far (and I know there are a fair few of you, judging from the number of people who've put this on story alert), now's the time to come out of lurkdom!

* * *

**Chapter Eleven – Communication**

* * *

For what felt like the first time in years, Mr. Thornton was laughing, a full, genuine, open-throated laugh. It was a sound of true mirth, not simply guilty amusement at Fanny's flightiness, or wry, rather contemptuous diversion at the occasional idiocy of the other masters.

The most amazing thing was, the man who had made him laugh was one of his employees, a man whom he would not have been able to name a few short weeks ago. After that first time that Nicholas had asked him into the dining hall for lunch, he had been dropping in now and then – only when the men invited him, of course – and he had been really getting to know some of them. Despite an initial awkwardness when he had first joined them, the men (and women) had become more accustomed to his presence now, and they all operated under the unspoken understanding that while he was in the dining hall eating with them, he was no longer their master, but one of them.

This was not to say that the conversation was all laughter and jokes – occasionally they did clash swords on the topic of the cotton industry and workers' wages and unions. But this sword-clashing was metaphorical only; these debates remained civilised, at first because of Nicholas' warning hand on the agitated man's arm, but then later because the men had come to truly respect Thornton and his opinions, perhaps because they realised that he genuinely did listen to their concerns.

In many respects, the dining hall was the perfect compromise between master and men: apart from the small wage he paid Mary Higgins to cook there, the scheme cost Thornton no money at all after the initial cost of fitting out the old outhouse, and this way the men could all eat at least one solid meal a day, and their pride was kept intact by the fact that it was their own money they were using to buy all the required ingredients.

It had got Thornton thinking – could they apply a system like this to any other aspect of the mill's running? His first idea was healthcare: would it be possible to start up a medical fund, which worked in a way somewhat similar to the union's strike fund? A system where every worker contributed a tiny portion of their weekly wage so that if anyone fell ill, a doctor's fee could be paid for – would it be feasible?

These days, Thornton found himself sharing these ideas not with Williams the overseer or any of the foremen, but rather with Nicholas Higgins, who had somehow become the link of communication between master and men. Somewhat to his surprise, Thornton found that he trusted Higgins' judgement, and he knew he could rely on the man to be honest with him about what the workers really wanted, but at the same time willing to listen to the master's ideas and convey them to his fellows.

But however receptive his workers seemed to be to his new ideas, Mr. Thornton was aware that his mother disapproved of it all; he could sense from the tautness of the lines in her face whenever the topic came up that she thought it all a waste of precious time and money, even if she did not express it so aloud. Margaret, on the other hand, seemed delighted. She had taken an active interest in the dining hall scheme, even helping Mary buy all the things needed the day before it came into operation, and at her own request, she had been given the task of keeping the accounts for the hall. The happy afternoon that he had spent teaching her how to manage assets, liabilities and drawings while she had smiled at him and their hands had accidentally brushed over the book of accounts more than once almost made him forget about the man he had seen her with at the station.

If only it had made her forget too – but he knew that she hadn't. Although they seemed now to be friends, whenever their conversation approached anything remotely connected to that night at the station, or the letter she had received, the atmosphere would become strained and awkward, if not downright tense.

And so it was that today, after a particularly sorry account of the mill's running was balanced and completed, that Mr. Thornton finally decided to confide in his mother the full extent of his worries about the mill's solvency. He hated to admit it to himself, but fear was what was keeping him from being entirely honest with Margaret on this score – he knew well that his wife should now be the first person he should tell about any worries he had, but he was also frightened. Frightened that if he told her about the likelihood of failure after all his promises to take care of her, that she would leave. What would she have to stay for, after all? She did not love him; she loved someone else – and if he could not even provide for her, then what reason had she to stay? This painful weight on his mind was the reason why he was now talking to his mother instead of her.

'Why didn't you tell me earlier?' his mother asked quietly, the sewing in her hands forgotten. It was hard to tell whether worry or reproach was more dominant in her voice.

He sighed. 'I had hoped that it was simply a rough patch I could get over. I did not want to worry you unnecessarily. But now...'

'You think it cannot be gotten over,' she finished for him, putting into words what he could not quite bring himself to say.

He nodded, sinking heavily into a chair. 'I have been trying for months now to make up for the lag caused by the strike, but we just haven't been able to produce fast enough.' He added ruefully, 'And what we have produced, we haven't been paid for on time.'

Mrs. Thornton's brow furrowed as she thought. 'Can we not make our debtors pay on time, by imposing a fine for late payments or some such thing?'

Mr. Thornton ran a hand through his hair. 'I have thought about it,' he replied, 'but we simply cannot afford to lose any of our customers – none of the other mills charge a fine; I cannot lose to the competition.' He closed his tired eyes for a moment before opening them again. 'I also considered offering a discount if they could pay sooner, but it's not feasible. We simply don't have the funds for it.'

Mrs. Thornton put her sewing back in the work-basket, giving up even the pretence of persevering with it. 'Don't we have any free capital?' she asked.

'Some,' he admitted, 'but in business terms, very little. Certainly not enough to be of much help – you remember we invested most of what we had in the new machinery.'

Although her heart sank at this news, another part of her couldn't help but glow at the sound of that 'we' again. It was good to talk, _really _talk with John once more, and help him with the business again, in the old way, like she had done in the time before his marriage. Then suddenly a thought caused her to frown. 'What does Miss Hale think about this?' she asked.

Mr. Thornton almost rolled his eyes – there was that Miss Hale again! But then almost immediately he sobered up at the awareness of the fact that his next disclosure would be an astonishing one. 'She doesn't know,' he admitted finally, in a rush.

Much as she valued sharing her son's confidence, Hannah Thornton knew enough to know that his mother should not have been his first confidante. 'You should have told her first,' she said, 'it is not fair to her.' She surprised even herself with this show of solidarity for the daughter-in-law she had always rather disliked than otherwise.

What her son said next, she did not quite catch, it was so quiet. 'What did you say, John?' she asked.

'I said, I'm not going to tell her,' he repeated, looking at the floor, with the same stubborn expression he wore on those rare occasions that he acted in defiance to Hannah's wishes.

But was this really so against her wishes? A part of Hannah cried out for her to take this opportunity to get her son back, to be the first in his affections once more, and she almost said nothing more about it. But if nothing else, Hannah was a fair woman with a sound judgement, and in the end her conscience won out over her jealous mother's heart. 'John, that is not right,' she said firmly. 'Margaret is your wife – she has the right to know, and it is your duty as a man of honour to tell her the truth.'

Mr. Thornton stood abruptly and begin to pace in a rather agitated manner. Finally he stopped in his pacing to look at her. 'We – well, we are not really... an ordinary couple,' he finished lamely.

His mother's brow was furrowed in confusion; then it cleared. 'Are you talking about that–' she almost said _lover_, but then amended her words to avoid giving him unnecessary pain– 'incident you witnessed at the station? That letter... you have confronted her about that, haven't you?'

He shook his head miserably. Then he attempted to rally his spirits. 'I don't think anything further has come of it,' he said. 'She hasn't sent any mail or received any for a while now.' But these rationalisations sounded weak even to his own ears.

'God, John – you're at the mill for most of the day, and she often spends the morning out Lord knows where, visiting her father or those workers; how on earth would you know whether or not she sends and receives mail?'

There – she had pointed out the flaw in his argument. But his defence, when it came, he was a little surprised to find, even he believed. 'There is nothing underhanded in Margaret's nature,' he said staunchly. 'I refuse to believe that she would go behind my back to send letters to anyone she thought I wouldn't approve of.'

His mother looked somewhat mollified. _Good thing she doesn't know about the Inspector, _he thought, and then he tried not to think of it himself, for it gave the lie to what he had just said. And yet despite it all he could not believe that Margaret would do anything wrong or deceitful.

Mr. Thornton braced himself for what he had to say next – what he probably should have told his mother right from the beginning. 'There's something else, Mother,' he said. He took a deep breath, and then launched into the explanation of how his marriage to Margaret had actually come about.

To her credit, Mrs. Thornton listened without interrupting until the very end, and did not even think of reproaching her son for not telling her this minor little detail. Instead her mind was grappling with a thought which would not leave it. 'But then why has she been looking so pale and tired this week? She hardly touches her food at meal-times these days and I have to insist on her eating. I thought it was because...'

He looked at her, frozen in his pacing, worry etched in all his features. He had not noticed any of these symptoms, but to be fair to him, it was not due to inattention, but rather due to long hours at work and the valiant effort Margaret made to stay cheerful in his presence. 'Because?' he prompted.

'Well, because she was with child,' his mother finished in a matter-of-fact manner. 'It can sometimes have the effect of putting one off certain foods, you know.'

He could not react so stoically, however. He cleared his throat, trying to fight down the heat that was creeping up his neck, resuming his pacing with an agitated step. 'That is impossible, Mother,' he declared finally, when he was sure he would be able to master his voice. 'In one respect you were correct in calling her "Miss" Hale.'

His mother had the sense and tact not to comment on this, and for that Mr. Thornton was truly grateful.

After a considered silence, his mother spoke. 'Well, perhaps it would be best not to say anything to her right now.' Then she looked him straight in the eye. 'But if matters do not resolve themselves soon, you will have no choice but to tell her, John.'

He sighed. 'I know, Mother. I know.'


	12. The Best Laid Plans

**A/N:** Yay, all my exams are over!! I want to know the results right now, but I'll have to wait another month. Sigh. My last exam was German yesterday, and I think I did my best.

So... apart from trying to pick up my music again (which I neglected for studying), getting a job, and learning to drive, I have plenty of free time on my hands. I'm really hoping to knuckle down and get this story finished before my holidays are over. I have until the end of February, so let's see how I go.

Thank you to everyone for reviewing, and I'm sorry that I haven't been responding to you all individually these days. Now that the dreaded exams are over, I will try to do so from now on. Thank you to the anonymous reviewers: Rosdal, annaflower, natural buff buff, spiked, Nocturne, Chris01 and ys1966 – I really appreciate it!

Please tell me what you think of this chapter!

* * *

**Chapter Twelve – The Best-Laid Plans**

* * *

While this communication between mother and son was proceeding, communication of a very different sort, though of no lesser importance, was proceeding between father and daughter at the Hales' residence in Crampton.

'Is there any further news yet?' asked Margaret. Despite having constantly told herself not to get her hopes up, this was exactly what she could not prevent herself from doing.

Mr. Hale sighed. 'No, nothing since that letter he sent me from London, saying that he's left for Spain.'

Margaret began to pace the room, unaware that two miles away her husband was doing the same. 'But it's been eight weeks now! Surely word of Fred's arrival in Cadiz should have reached us by now. He did promise to write as soon as he arrived, and it shouldn't take more than three weeks for the letter to travel!' She had been expecting a letter last week at the latest, but word still had not come. She had not been able to think of anything else all week.

'Margaret,' began Mr. Hale worriedly, 'you don't think... well, that anything has _happened_ to him, do you? Perhaps the letter has just got lost, eh, Margaret?'

She looked at him, recognising in his eyes the same misguided hope that had been present when he had pleaded for confirmation that her mother's illness was not serious. It seemed cruel to deny him this possibility, however slight. She sighed, sitting down again. 'Yes,' she said, trying to sound convinced, 'that's probably it.' But she couldn't help worrying all the same.

She could see that despite her reassurances, her father was still troubled as well. 'Perhaps I should stay here,' he said hesitantly, 'and wait for any letters.'

Margaret would not hear of this. 'No, that's not necessary, Papa. You should go to Oxford like you planned, and enjoy yourself. I'll ask the post-office to forward any letters addressed here to Marlborough Street.' She took his hand. 'Do not worry,' she said, trying to smile. 'I will take care of it, and I will send you any information.'

She did not think about how she might receive these letters at the Thornton residence. She would cross that bridge when she came to it. After all, a letter might not arrive at all. And if one did, and it contained news of Fred's safe arrival in Cadiz, then she could finally tell Mr. Thornton the truth that she had been longing to tell him ever since the arrival of the first letter.

She hated the thought that she had lost his respect by lying to the Inspector. Oh, Mr. Thornton was quite civil and amiable to her these days, and they almost seemed to have settled back into their previous friendship, but he did not trust her. She knew this for certain – for whenever their conversation alluded to the incident at the station or the letter, however vaguely, the telltale cloud would come across his face again, and he would begin to treat her in a more distant manner. It pained her to see it and had more than once caused her eyes to sting with tears, but she was as yet powerless to do anything to change his opinion of her; the secret was not hers to tell.

However uneasy she was still feeling, her father's conscience on the matter seemed almost settled by her assurances. Then he brightened as he thought of something that he could do. 'Perhaps I can stop by in London on the way, and I can question Mr. Lennox as to the particulars – see if I can find out anything we might have missed.'

Margaret would encourage anything which would make her father's mind more at ease, and so she commended this plan of action as a very good idea. The next day as she visited again to farewell her father to Oxford and Dixon to London where she would be staying with the Shaws for the duration of her father's trip, she could not help hoping for more information. At least it would end this wretched uncertainty – and she might know what had really happened.

What if Frederick had not made it safely to Cadiz? What if he had been captured and was awaiting trial as they spoke? Her only poor consolation was that, whatever had happened, they would find out one way or another, either by Fred's letter or by the newspaper headlines.

* * *

It was that time of the month again. The time when Mr. Thornton conducted his routine machine checks, to make sure everything was running smoothly and as it should. He and Jones, one of the foremen, would make this round every month. Since the new power looms had come in, this check was much faster, as they didn't seem to need any repairs just yet – at least there was one good thing about them, then.

But today there seemed to be rather more problems than usual. Quite a few of the machines had become stiff and needed oiling, so this was why Thornton was now lying on the ground under one of them, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hands covered in black grease as he tried to get it running smoothly again. A bad position to be in, especially when Higgins came running with the news that there was a jam in one of the other machines. Thornton had instinctively tried to sit up at the man's voice, and was now thanking his stars that the machine had not been in operation when he had done so – he escaped with only a bump on his head from where he had hit it.

He frowned. The children in his employ were compelled to crawl under these machines daily for hours at a time to collect stray pieces of cotton, while the machines were running, too. So far there hadn't been any accidents at Marlborough Mills, but was this level of risk really acceptable?

Well, he could ponder that later. Finishing the last touches of oil, he slid out from under the machine and gave it a few experimental pulls; it seemed to be running properly again. Then he turned to Higgins. 'Alright, take me to this jammed machine,' he said, and the men walked briskly over to the machine in question.

Thornton sighed as soon as he saw it – the cloth and threads had become jammed in the gears at the side of the machine to become one big, convoluted mess. _Another roll unfit for selling_, he thought grimly. 'Who was managing this loom?' he asked Higgins.

'I was, sir,' piped up a hesitant Irishman, looking rather worried for himself, but at the same time sorry for the trouble he'd unwittingly caused.

Thornton acknowledged this with a nod. He knew the man: one of the new hands brought over during the strike. The jam had not happened through carelessness then – just lack of expertise. 'Be careful it doesn't happen again, Sullivan,' he said shortly. He turned to Nicholas. 'Higgins, if you could answer any questions he might have, that would be appreciated.' Higgins nodded, and the Irishman looked relieved. The two men moved aside a little to one of the other looms as Higgins began to instruct Sullivan.

Thornton now turned his attention to the machine. He tried to see exactly what had happened, but it was difficult when it was all tangled together. The cloth seemed to have been warped and wefted backwards, which the machine was not equipped to deal with. Slowly, carefully, he began to pick apart the mess, pulling the threads out of the gears one by one.

It seemed to be working, as the machine's parts began to move feebly once more, the mess of threads no longer fully restraining them. Thornton cautiously put his hand down between the gears to quickly jerk out the last wad of cloth blocking the machine, but it was caught tighter than he had anticipated, and he was not fast enough. Before he even felt the almighty pinch, he felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach – a sense of impending doom.

Then his hand began to burn as if it were on fire. Instinctively, gritting his teeth against the pain, he wrenched his hand out and stumbled backwards, landing hard on the ground, unable to stop the yell of pain that tore itself from his throat. In a daze, head throbbing from where he had hit it on the base of the loom behind him, he looked down at what was left of his hand.

'Oh...' He wasn't sure what he had been about to say before he lost consciousness, but he was willing to bet it wouldn't have been 'dear'.


	13. The Best Medicine

**A/N:** I'm _so_ sorry for the delay in posting this – my internet has been down for an impossibly long time due to – wait for it – a truck driving over the cables which are underground, and crushing them. True story – my internet connection was killed by a truck. o_O

Anyway – extra-long chapter for you guys to make up for the awful cliffhanger I left you with last time. Hope you like it!

Thank you to everyone for reviewing, and thanks to the anonymous reviewers: Crazyfaith, Rosdal, Nocturne, Chris01, loriBear and Lara-chan.

Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter too!

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen – The Best Medicine**

* * *

When Margaret slowly made her way back to Marlborough street from Crampton, she was completely unprepared for the scene she encountered. Men were calling out to each other, and running across the yard, and a group of five or six of them seemed to be carrying someone inside, led by a hysterical Jane.

Stopping one of the men in the yard, Margaret tried to find out what was happening. 'James, what is all this? What's going on here?'

The man looked at her in surprise. 'Oh, it's the master, Mrs. Thornton,' he said, and her blood turned to ice.

'What happened?' she asked, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears, as if it were coming from someone else.

The man scratched his head. 'I'm not sure exactly, ma'am, but I think there was an accident with one of the machines. His mother's just gone herself to fetch the doctor.'

She managed a breathless 'Thank you, James' before she hurried across the yard inside the house. In the sitting room she could see Fanny lying prostrate on one of the sofas, either unconscious, or pretending to be. Either way it did not bode well.

Following the voices, she took the stairs two at a time, finally joining the crowd gathered in their – her and Mr. Thornton's – bedchamber. Nicholas Higgins, who was one of the men who had carried Mr. Thornton up into the house, began to herd out the others, trying to lessen the crowd.

Margaret cast a frantic glance over her husband's still body, her gaze fixing on his mangled and bloody right hand. There was so much blood – he was losing so much blood. She began to tremble uncontrollably, but then reproached herself sternly; now was _not _the time to start acting like Fanny.

Pulling herself together, she strode over to the wardrobe and rifled through it until she found one of Mr. Thornton's cotton shirts. Then she hurried around the bed to his right side. Holding her breath, she lifted his hand by the wrist as gently as she could and began to wrap it tightly in the shirt. Back in Helstone, she had learnt from the labourers that one must bind the wound tightly and keep a firm pressure on it to lessen blood loss.

Despite the cares she took not to jar him or increase the pain, even in his unconscious state his brow furrowed and he hissed in pain. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead, and his face was as white as the sheets that he lay upon.

Margaret turned slightly. 'Nicholas, could you bring some water, please?'

Relieved to be given something to do, Nicholas instantly set off to obey. Meanwhile Margaret darted a worried glance out the window. How long would it take Mrs. Thornton to reach Dr. Donaldson's residence? Would he be in, or would he already be doing his rounds somewhere? For a moment, the parson's daughter closed her eyes in prayer. _Dear Lord, please let everything be alright. Please don't let anything happen to him._

Then she opened her eyes again, focusing on Mr. Thornton. His breathing was laboured, and her gaze went to his black cravat. Surely it could not be comfortable to lie down with one on? When she had been struck by the stone the rioters had thrown, her first thought on regaining consciousness had been a wish that her corset would not squeeze her so tightly, hindering her breathing. Perhaps the sensation was similar with a cravat?

For a moment the impropriety of what she planned to do made her hesitate, but then she brushed aside her reservations. In this situation, to be even thinking about whether or not it was improper seemed to be in itself improper.

Keeping one hand still pressed on the cloth which bound his wound, she used the other to unravel his cravat by pulling the ends. With one last tug, she laid it aside, and then began to undo his waistcoat buttons, which was no mean feat to accomplish one-handed. Finally, it was done, and if it was not her imagination, his breathing seemed to have eased.

When Nicholas returned with the water, she took out her clean handkerchief and dipped it in the bowl and began to mop at her husband's forehead, keeping up a steady stream of conversation as she did so. 'There, that feels better, doesn't it?' She stroked his hair as she moved it off his forehead. Even if he could not hear her, it made her feel a little less anxious to keep talking. 'I'm sure you'll be fine in no time. Just lie still and relax; the doctor will be here soon.' She paused, laying the cloth down and taking his uninjured hand. 'You will be alright,' she said, her voice not entirely steady, trying to reassure herself as much as him. 'You _will _be alright.'

* * *

When Dr. Donaldson arrived after what seemed like an age to Margaret, but what was in reality actually only half an hour after the accident had occurred, he commended Margaret on her presence of mind in stemming the blood flow. She hardly heard, instantly pressing him to tell her if the wound was serious, a concern he did not address immediately, looking over the wound in a way that seemed painfully slow to Margaret, all the while making 'Hmm's and 'Oh my's which shed no light whatsoever.

As the doctor set about carefully peeling away the blood-soaked shirt Margaret had used as a makeshift bandage, Margaret's eyes met Mrs. Thornton's. She could see the worry and fear she was feeling mirrored in her mother-in-law's eyes, and for that one moment at least, united in their regard for the man who was lying unconscious before them, they understood one another completely. As if in acknowledgement of this, Mrs. Thornton silently came and stood by Margaret, and they both watched the doctor's work anxiously.

Having efficiently cleaned the wounded hand, he finally told them what they longed to hear. 'It's not as bad as it looks,' he declared, and they both gave audible sighs of relief. 'He will be almost perfectly alright in a few weeks or so.' Tears of gratitude welled up in Margaret's eyes and she blinked rapidly to contain them. Having lived in Milton for almost two years now, she was horribly aware that not everyone was so lucky after an accident with the machinery. She had heard of many cases where men had died, or at the very least had to have their injured limbs amputated. She shivered to think how close her Mr. Thornton had come to such a fate. With an effort she wrenched her thoughts away from this dangerous train and focused her attention on what was passing before her.

The doctor proceeded to hold up a small bottle to Mr. Thornton's nose, and sure enough, after breathing in whatever was present there, he regained consciousness with a start. For a moment he looked blank, but almost instantly his eyes glazed over with the pain, and he slumped back onto the bed, wincing as his injured head was jarred by the fall, letting out a low groan which he could not contain.

Margaret helped the doctor in propping up his pillows so that he could partially sit up, acting with the understanding and quickness that came of substantial affection, the doctor thought approvingly. Then both Margaret and Mrs. Thornton instinctively stepped forward to take Mr. Thornton's uninjured hand, but Margaret being closer, got there first. Mrs. Thornton stepped back at once, hoping that nobody had noticed her blunder. The doctor was busy with his patient, her daughter-in-law was too absorbed in her husband and that worker...

Mrs. Thornton noticed a look in the eye of Nicholas Higgins – what was a worker doing by her son's bedside anyway? – that told her that he had seen and understood her, but instead of the amusement or mockery she had been expecting, she found she could only discern sympathy in his expression. She looked away hurriedly, eyes prickling uncomfortably.

Meanwhile Margaret was whispering reassurances to her husband, clutching his hand and inwardly cursing her voice for being so weak. 'Do not worry, Mr. Thornton, you will be alright. Dr. Donaldson will take care of it – you will be fine.' Without thinking, she brought his hand up and pressed her lips against the firm nubs of his knuckles, before continuing in her rapid flow of assurances.

It was not so easily forgotten by Mr. Thornton, however. As Margaret's lips touched his skin, a myriad of emotions could be seen to flit across his face, ranging from joy to confusion to longing to inexpressible sadness as the memory of that other man, which he had tried to suppress for months now came back to him as vividly as if he had seen them together yesterday.

'There are deep lacerations along the front and back of the hand,' said Dr. Donaldson, his voice interrupting Mr. Thornton's painful reverie. 'And I will have to reset the wrist – it's dislocated.' Pulling a vial out of a pocket of his satchel, he handed it to Mr. Thornton. 'You'd better drink this – laudanum,' he added, in response to Mr. Thornton's look of enquiry.

Reluctantly taking his hand out of Margaret's, he took the vial and downed it in one gulp, making a face at the awful taste. 'Was that necessary?' he asked, grimacing at the aftertaste.

Dr. Donaldson nodded. 'Oh yes,' he said. He pulled out a horribly large-looking needle. 'You'll be glad of it when I'm doing the stitches.' Thornton began to smile in amusement, but his smile froze and slowly faded as he saw the doctor's grave face. The man was completely serious.

Closing his eyes, Mr. Thornton reached for Margaret's supportive hand once more.

* * *

Four weeks. That was how long he would have to wear this sling, and that was how long he had to abstain from writing in order to let his hand heal and ensure that the wound did not reopen and begin to bleed afresh.

Thankful as he was that his injury was so minor, he could not ignore the fact that the timing could not have been worse. There was so much work to do for the mill, and although between them Williams and Higgins were doing a fine job of running it, the accounts and correspondence with clients were languishing. In Mr. Thornton's opinion, despite what the doctor had insisted upon, he did not need a week's bed rest; the doctor himself had admitted that his head wound was not at all serious, and hadn't even caused concussion. His hand was perfectly fine, so long as he didn't move too much – so then what was the need to lie here like an idle fool, being bored out of his brain, except when Margaret came in to talk with him or read to him?

Already he had spent the past two days in bed, forced to observe the doctor's orders by the hawk-like watchfulness of his wife and his mother, who seemed to be conspiring together to ensure that he did not lift a finger to do something for himself.

He was contemplating the practicality of making an escape to the mill through his second-storey window, fiddling with the catch, when after a soft knock, Margaret entered. He started as guiltily as if she had caught him with one leg outside.

She smiled to see him up and about again, despite her and Mrs. Thornton's best efforts to get him to rest. 'You are looking well today,' she said.

Hope entered his heart. 'I feel well,' he said truthfully. Then his eyes became pleading. 'Margaret, is there any chance that I could –'

Any hope died with the iron determination of her expression. 'No,' she said sternly. 'You know what Dr. Donaldson ordered. Not for five more days.' She placed a hand on his elbow, careful not to jar his right hand, and began to steer him back to the bed. 'Now get back in.'

Sighing, he did as he was told, grumbling under his breath about quacks and their good-for-nothing orders.

Once she had seen him settled under his covers like a good little patient, she sat in the chair near the bedside, folding her hands on her lap. 'I actually came here with a purpose other than making sure you weren't trying to break out of your cell,' she smiled, and he shifted uncomfortably under his covers; she little knew how close she had hit to the truth with her jest.

'Oh?' he asked, in response to her statement. 'What would that be?'

'I am aware,' she began, 'that although Williams and Nicholas have been making sure business runs as usual in the mill, your absence has meant a setback in the other formal matters of business which you usually attend to.'

His ears pricked hopefully. Was this a prelude to allowing him to return to work early?

'So what I have come to propose,' she continued, 'is that I could help you with them. You could dictate to me, and I could be your right hand, so to speak.' He was silent for so long that she lost her confidence, and her face fell. 'I had – hoped that the suggestion would be welcome to you,' she said, crestfallen.

She had mistaken his silence. His first reaction had been gratification at her thoughtfulness, but then the thought had occurred to him that if he let her make the accounts, she would know exactly how deplorable a state the mill's finances were really in. He had no choice but to say it. 'It's a nice thought, Margaret,' he said stiffly, hating himself as he saw the hurt in her eyes. 'But it's not necessary, I assure you.'

'Oh.' She nodded, biting her lip and blinking rapidly. She did not look up at him. 'Very well.' She slowly stood, still not meeting his eyes. 'I understand.' Then she hurried out of the room, leaving him gazing after her in regret.

She did _not_ understand. How could she? He could not let her know what a mess he had made of things – he knew that if she ever found out, she would leave, go to the man she actually loved. He still clung to the vain but persistent hope that if he could save the mill, then she would stay.

He closed his eyes, sighing. It was the only way – he had to save a mill that was collapsing; he had to deliver on orders he didn't have time to fulfill; he had to hope and pray for overdue payments which seemed as if they would never arrive. He had to save the mill. He _had _to_._


	14. One Wedding and a Funeral

**A/N:** I always like to keep a couple of chapters ahead of what I post, but this time I'm making an exception. This is the last pre-written chapter I'm posting, because I want you guys to have it on time; so from now on I really have to get writing. Since I still have holidays, hopefully there won't be a huge delay, but I can't promise anything. My inspiration for this story seems to be dwindling a little; I've got it all planned out and know almost exactly where it's going, but it's just hard to sit down and write it. Anyway – I will try, I promise you that; I feel I owe it to all of you who have been loyally following and reviewing this story for ages.

So... thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, and the anonymous reviewers: Rosdal, spiked, Lara-chan, sangita, samroura, loriBear, Lana and Anonyreader!

Please tell me what you think of this one!

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen – One Wedding and a Funeral**

* * *

Fanny Thornton's wedding, in her own humble opinion, was the grandest in the history of Milton, if not the whole of England. Everybody who was anybody in Milton had attended, and the months of organisation and planning had not gone wasted. The decorations, flowers and wedding breakfast menu had all been perfect, and she noted with satisfaction that her sister-in-law had noticed it all and seemed downcast at the difference between Fanny's and her own wedding.

Fanny was not in general one to be critical, but really, what a shabby little affair _that _had been! Why, she had been quite ashamed of John that day – she would have thought that as a Thornton, he would have made more of an effort. To tell the truth she was a little ashamed of him today as well – turning up with that sling around his arm like a survivor of battle, turning attention away from her wedding and toward his trifling injury. It had been more than three weeks since he had sustained it, and despite her pleas that he forgo wearing it, he had persisted, Miss Hale's pig-headed insistence winning out over the humble request of his only sister on her wedding day.

Well, this incident had made her certain of what she had always suspected: that her brother's priorities were sadly mixed up. But then perhaps this persistent determination to ignore the most important things in life was simply a particularly male tendency; Watson had not shown much interest in the wedding preparations either. But she would have thought that as a woman, Miss Hale might have been more anxious about the organisation of her own wedding.

Well, in comparison it really made Fanny's look that much better, so she was not about to complain. She was sure that all the guests were comparing the two Thornton weddings in their minds, and she had no doubt, she thought with a cat-got-the-cream smile of pure satisfaction, that hers would come off the undisputed winner.

* * *

In reality, most of the wedding guests had more important things to think about than which Thornton wedding had had grander decorations. Despite the fact that Margaret and Mr. Thornton stayed side by side during the ceremony as a couple should, in truth the distance between them had not been so great for a while.

Margaret had been hurt and puzzled by his declining her offer: why would he not let her help him? Was it because she was a woman? Did he believe her incapable of the task? But no – he had trusted her to keep the accounts for the dining hall and had once or twice – she glowed at the remembrance – praised her for her work. Then what was it?

She knew he must have some rational reason for acting as he had done. She only wished that he would confide in her, but it would have been hypocritical of her to expect as much, considering how much she had concealed from him in the past few months. She stole a glance at him as he stared straight ahead, seemingly absorbed in listening to the ceremony.

Perhaps it was the very fact that she had never been honest with him that had caused his response. He still did not trust her, and not without reason, she thought miserably. She had never wanted to tell him more. She wanted those eyes to look at her, not with suspicion or disdain, but with the perfect trust and affection which had been there in the early days of their marriage. Too late, only too late did she yearn for the love which had once been hers when she had little recognised its worth.

She sighed, trying to return her attention to the ceremony. And when it ended, and Mr. Thornton offered her his uninjured arm as they exited the church, she could not feel glad, because she knew it was simply a formality, to keep up appearances.

It seemed she and Mr. Thornton had always been about appearances; their relationship was defined by them. Even to each other, they had only ever presented what they wished to be seen. Margaret was beginning to wonder if the difficulty was all of her own making, and if she was being stupid in persisting in this concealment. But then it would always come back to her, that part of the difficulty was Mr. Thornton as well. He evidently believed, as the tittle-tattle of Milton had, that poor Frederick was some lover she had been clandestinely meeting. At times her pride would rear its head and she would feel a stab of anger towards him, that he could think so badly of her – she would think that she was little required to justify herself to a person who trusted so little in her virtue. But then she would reproach herself for these feelings – given what he had witnessed, it was probably only a natural conclusion to come to, and she had hardly done anything to deserve his trust.

Margaret saw only one distant hope in the future, with the arrival of Frederick's letter (which she prayed would come soon). She would then be able to tell Mr. Thornton the whole truth, and hopefully by then some surviving remnant of the tenderness he had once held for her could be nursed back into what it had been. However, the way things were between them now, Margaret felt that this might be a vain hope.

Perhaps it would be her punishment to live with the knowledge that his love was lost to her forever, when she had never felt more certain that she could reciprocate it.

* * *

Normally Mr. Thornton would have had no objections to spending time alone with Margaret, as they were sure to find much to talk about, whether they were discussing the dining hall, the Boucher children or the classics which Mr. Thornton unfortunately did not have the time to discuss with Mr. Hale these days. However, today he could not help feeling a pang of foreboding as they bid Fanny and her new husband farewell, Mrs. Thornton accompanying her daughter to help her pack for her wedding journey.

The next few hours would not be comfortable. He was feeling guilty for refusing her offer, but at the same time he knew that he couldn't risk her finding out the true state of his business affairs. They had just entered the house and divested themselves of their overcoats when Jane burst into the room, instantly dispelling Mr. Thornton's concerns as a deeper worry took their place.

'There's an express for you from Oxford, Mrs. Thornton,' she said breathlessly, handing Margaret a letter whose direction was so hurriedly written that it was hardly legible. Jane hovered by the doorway, hoping they would not send her away, for her curiosity to know what was in the letter was great. It might even be something _more _juicy than the events which had caused the riot of a few months ago to disperse.

Luckily for Jane, the Thorntons were far too preoccupied to give her a second thought.

With a sudden dreadful premonition, Margaret had taken the letter with trembling fingers, carefully seating herself before opening it. Mr. Thornton's concern deepened into worry and he watched her anxiously as her eyes devoured the words on the page. With every line she read more blood drained out of her face until her skin was chalk-white. Her lips began to tremble and he could see the tears which were beginning to well up in her eyes. Immediately he was at her side. 'Margaret, whatever is the matter?'

Her head turned at his voice, desperately concerned, and when she saw the sympathy and worry in his eyes, she could no longer restrain herself. Pressing her face into his chest, she burst into tears. 'R – read it for yourself,' she managed to choke out between her sobs.

Taking the letter which she extended to him an unsteady hand, he scanned over it quickly. _...your father dead …peaceful, in his sleep... so sorry... funeral in Oxford._

It was enough. His arms wound around her, clasping her close to him, and instinctively he smoothed her hair off her tear-stained face, and began rubbing soothing circles into her back. 'Oh Margaret,' he said hoarsely, 'oh my poor, darling Margaret. I'm here. Oh, my darling girl, I'm here.'

A tremor passed through Margaret's body at these words and even in the midst of her grief a glorious hope began to take root in her heart. Could it be, that even after everything, he still...? The fingers which were clutching the lapels of his jacket unconsciously tightened their grip and she gave a shuddering sigh. How happy her father would be, she thought and then she remembered. _Papa..._

She felt horrible for forgetting, even for a moment. What kind of a human being was she, to be able to feel any happiness at all at this moment, when she knew that she would never look upon that beloved face again, would never hear his voice, would never have him to guide her, would never be able to tell him again just how much she loved him...

As fresh sobs wracked Margaret's form, Mr. Thornton simply held her close and let her cry. He understood that Margaret had lost the last part of her family, and that she now had nobody closer than him to rely on. A treacherous part of his mind whispered, _but what about that other man at the station? _but he firmly banished all such thoughts. He was here, that man was not, and that was the end of it. Margaret needed someone, and if that man was not going to show himself and provide the comfort she needed, then Mr. Thornton would just have to do it for him.

His whole being was concentrated on Margaret and how she might be feeling, and that was perhaps why he did not notice Jane who was still mutely standing by the door, tears now coursing down her face. Silently, she turned away, moving out of the room with a soft tread. Seeing her master and the new mistress together brought back painful memories of what she had once shared with the man she loved, the fiance she had lost only a few short months ago after a tumble at a train station.

Suddenly she found she no longer had the desire to tell Cook or Sarah the kitchen maid what she had seen and heard.


	15. Things Unsaid

**A/N:** Please don't beat me! I know it's been a while since I've updated, and I'm sorry for it; but the inspiration has been dwindling. I'm hoping that once I start uni (in a week and a half! I'm pretty excited), I'll have so little free time that my muse will be active once more. I actually had the most ideas and wrote the most when I had exams looming, which was pretty inconvenient. I even remember sitting in my psychology final and getting ideas for this story.

Progress on this story is going very slowly, so I cannot promise another update any time soon, but here's this chapter in the meantime. Hopefully some of you are still following this story, and I would love to hear your thoughts, as always!

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen – Things Unsaid**

* * *

They sat side by side in the train compartment, but did not speak. In a silent gesture of support Mr. Thornton had taken her hand, and it was in this attitude that they remained. Through the window Margaret watched the scenery flash by without really seeing it. She was finding it difficult to believe that her father was truly gone. It had been only a little under a month ago that she had seen him off to Oxford, in perfect health, and the two letters she had received from him since then had both sounded cheerful, with nothing in them to indicate illness or unhappiness. He had hesitated in going, she remembered, and it had been at her insistence that he had set off in the first place. Her stomach twisted suddenly in guilt. If she hadn't sent him off, if he had stayed in Milton, he might not have – or in any case, she might have been there with him when...

She blinked rapidly, but it was too late, and the movement only caused a drop to fall. Mr. Thornton looked up at her, concerned, as he felt the small drop of wetness fall onto his hand where it covered hers in her lap. He did not know what to say, so he settled for squeezing her hand slightly. _I'm here if you need me._ She managed to give him a brief, watery smile as she squeezed back.

Margaret sighed as she returned her gaze to the view outside the window. Instead of pondering on the many things she could have done to cause things to turn out differently, she really should be counting her blessings. She had – if not his love, then – Mr. Thornton's support, and she might not even be here if she didn't. No other man and certainly none of her relations would have understood her need to be present at her father's funeral, despite how unconventional it was for a woman to attend.

'I'm coming too,' she had said in a tone that brooked no argument. It was not outright defiance, but it came close, and it was abundantly clear that with or without his permission she would get there somehow.

She need not have worried, however. He had not protested. 'Of course,' he had said quietly. Then he had told her of his own father's funeral, and how he had been unable to attend as he had still been at school. She had been surprised but touched at this mark of confidence, suddenly realising that barring that time when he had first come to Crampton for tea, he had never spoken to her of his father. Perhaps there was nobody else who could have understood so well her need for closure, as the one who had found it doubly difficult to shake off the spectre of his father's death due to a lack of it.

It had not taken long to settle the particulars of the journey after that. They had set off the next day, and would arrive in time to help Mr. Bell with the arrangements for the funeral which was to take place the day after that.

Partly due to Mr. Thornton's refusing her help with writing his business letters, and partly due to the news of her father's death, Margaret had not slept properly in quite a while. After some time the rhythmic movements of the train caused her eyelids to droop. She had not the energy to fight sleep's onset, and so she simply settled herself comfortably with her head on Mr. Thornton's shoulder before giving way.

* * *

Mr. Bell was always happy to see his goddaughter, but this time he was particularly anxious to meet her again because it would be the first time he would see her since her wedding. His peace of mind was to depend on this meeting, for if she were not happy in her marriage, it would be entirely his fault, and he would never be able to live with himself. He had often meant to visit her in Milton, but at first business and then his own cowardice had kept him away, as he feared the knowledge that she was unhappy.

Today he would find out how things truly stood between Margaret and Mr. Thornton, for he could not glean much information from the vague allusions in Richard's letters. That Thornton at the time of their wedding had been deeply in love with her had been obvious, and although he had had his own conjectures on the matter, Mr. Bell knew that when they had married, Margaret had not exactly been willing. Had he and Richard made a terrible mistake? Or had things turned out well in spite of every impediment?

It was with these questions running through his mind that he waited anxiously in his campus lodgings for them to arrive. When they finally did, the answers were not immediately apparent, for Margaret was looking pale and sad, and Thornton as grave as he'd ever seen him. But then, he thought, chiding himself inwardly, one could hardly expect smiles and loving looks from the recently bereaved.

He continued to watch them carefully the next day at the funeral, and although there was not a great difference in their demeanours from the previous day, one thing struck him forcibly. At her mother's funeral, Margaret had had to be strong for her father's sake, and keep up a calm exterior. Now there was nobody for her to pretend for, and although she did not go to pieces – Margaret never would – tears ran silently down her face the entire time. He watched her quietly accept Thornton's proffered handkerchief and supportive arm, and it was then that he knew – everything would be alright. His consideration for her was obvious, and it was apparent that she trusted him enough to give way to her emotions in front of him.

He knew that where Margaret trusted, she would love. Romantic love was perhaps too much to hope for between such a discrepant couple, but mutual admiration and respect were certainly there and could only grow. Maybe the story of Margaret and Mr. Thornton would never become a great love ballad, but Mr. Bell was convinced that they could be good friends, and could share such a friendship as would always be a solid foundation for successful marriage.

* * *

Margaret's eyes stung and she could feel the beginnings of a blinding headache coming on. It was not to be wondered at, for she had spent a large part of the last few days with tears blurring her vision; but it was not possible for her to leave the funeral immediately after it was over. Instead she had to wait with Mr. Thornton and politely accept the condolences which people offered.

Most of her father's Oxford friends were there, but when she spoke to them, their fond reminiscences of their college days together with her father made her think that they mourned more for the memory of her father as he had been more than thirty years ago, than the man he had become over that time. None of the guests except for her, Mr. Thornton and Mr. Bell could truly mourn the Richard Hale who had died three days ago.

And perhaps this was why, despite the aching of her head and her own desire for solitude, she tried her best to listen to Mr. Bell as he came up to talk to her. She owed it to him, and to her father, and she found that his sympathy was easier to accept, and didn't make her feel that half-guilty resentment provoked by her father's other Oxford friends.

To her mild surprise, she saw Henry Lennox as well, standing some distance away from all the others; she had not glimpsed him there before, but he must have come down from London for the funeral. She and Henry had not parted friends, but she was glad to see him today.

He happened to look up then, and catch her eye, and she managed a weak smile as he began to make his way over to her. As he reached them, greetings were exchanged; subdued on her part, slightly bemused on Mr. Bell's, and barely a grim nod of acknowledgement on Mr. Thornton's. Margaret had not time to ponder this unusual curtness in her husband's manner before Henry spoke.

'Margaret,' he said, and out of the corner of her eye she could see a deepening scowl forming on Mr. Thornton's face for some reason, 'could I have a word with you in private?'

Her brow creased in slight confusion, but nevertheless she acquiesced. 'Certainly,' she said, and then she followed him to a more secluded corner of the courtyard.

If she had looked back then, she would have seen Mr. Bell's eyebrows raised in surprise, and Mr. Thornton's lowered in anger, jealousy, pain and a burning curiosity to know what this other man wanted with his wife.


	16. Reconciliation and Revelation

**A/N:** A long-ish sort of chapter to make up for my slow updating. Again, I haven't got any pre-written chapters, so you guys are sort of getting this as it's being written, so I can't set any promised deadlines for updating. But I am trying, and I do mostly know where this is going.

Thank you to everyone, and the anonymous reviewers: Kitty, Rosdal, sangita, spiked, aastacia, Chris01, Celebrytie Aris Channas and DDB – I really appreciate it, guys!

Hope you guys like this chapter – would love to hear any thoughts in a review!

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen – Reconciliation and Revelation**

* * *

Once they were standing in a corner of the courtyard where they could speak, Margaret turned an inquiring gaze on Henry. 'Well?' she said, after some time in which he did not speak. 'What is it?' She tried to keep her tone civil, for although she was genuinely glad to see Henry, she would rather go back to Mr. Thornton so they could return home.

Henry started a little as if he had just snapped out of a reverie, but then he began to speak. 'Margaret,' he said, 'would you happen to know what this means?' From his pocket he pulled out a letter, handing it to her.

Her stomach gave a jolt as she recognised the familiar writing, and her eyes began to prickle with tears once more. 'When?' she managed to ask, and was relieved that he seemed to understand immediately, for she was not sure she would have been able to form the question.

'I received this three days ago,' he said quickly, 'and I was expecting to see your father yesterday, but then I found out from my brother and Edith that...' He trailed off.

She held the letter in her hands reverently, and read the few words on it to herself over and over. To anyone else it would have seemed a commonplace note enough, but to her it was unspeakably precious as the last letter her father had ever written.

Henry's voice as he spoke sounded a little hesitant, as if he were unwilling to intrude into her private moment. 'I was wondering if you might know what business he wished to discuss with me.'

Margaret nodded. 'He told me he wished to meet with you so that he could ascertain the particulars of Frederick's departure.' As she spoke it caused the fear to press down upon her doubly strongly. For some time now, she had had other worries to contend with, but now her uncertainty of Frederick's safety gained the ascendancy. 'We should have heard from him over a month ago,' she explained, 'and Father thought that if he talked to you, he might find out something we had missed, something which could explain it.' As she spoke she looked up at him,unable to hide her hope, her eyes almost pleading with him to say what she wished to hear, to say anything that might account for her brother's long silence.

It seemed almost as painful to him as to her for him to have to let her down. He shook his head slowly. 'I'm sorry,' he said, looking his words. 'I even saw him off on the ship myself, and it all went smoothly. He wasn't recognised or captured, and as far as I know he got safely out of England.' Then a look of grim thoughtfulness came over his face. 'If you would like, I could check for you what became of that ship.'

Margaret blanched at the terrible possibility he was suggesting, but she steeled herself. She would have to prepare her mind for every eventuality, no matter how unbearable. 'Thank you, Henry,' she managed to say.

He nodded in acknowledgement and then they fell silent. She was about to turn away and return to Mr. Thornton when he spoke again, sounding as if it were difficult for him – articulate lawyer that he usually was – to get the words out. 'Margaret,' he began haltingly, 'I also wanted to say, I'm heartily sorry for – for my behaviour when we last met, at your wedding.' His fingers restlessly twisted the button on one of his cuffs as he spoke. 'I hope you can bring yourself to forgive me and – and to believe me when I say that I _truly _wish you and Mr. Thornton well.'

He looked up at her, and then he did a touching thing – he averted his eyes quickly and swallowed hard. Margaret's heart went out to him, and she did not hesitate in taking his hand and smiling up at him warmly. 'Henry,' she said gently, 'of course I forgive you. I can understand your behaviour even if it made me uncomfortable, and I know that was not who you are.'

He smiled back, and Margaret felt the day brighten just a little. It was gratifying to be back on good terms with one of her only remaining friends.

* * *

He had taken her aside to speak privately; was intimate enough with her to address her by her Christian name; had handed her a letter which she had gazed at reverently before putting it away carefully in her reticule; had said something which made her give him such a bright, affectionate smile, something which made her take his hand–

He could not bear to watch anymore. He did not know what to believe.

Actually, he knew exactly what to believe. He just didn't want to believe it. But every circumstance was there in confirmation of every suspicion which had preyed upon him for months now: her secret correspondence with a London man, her lies about her presence at the train station, her avoidance of every opportunity to confide in him, the warmth with which she had conversed with Lennox.

She was coming up to him now, and his burning curiosity got the better of him, although in light of her current fragile feelings he tried to make his voice gentle and rid it of the bitterness which was welling up inside him. 'What was that all about?' he asked quietly.

She looked full and straight up at him, and although her face was pale, her eyes seemed to have acquired a sort of sorrowful calm. 'We were discussing some private business of my father's.' She said no more, and something about her tone warned him not to ask further.

If she were to be believed – and despite everything he was still inclined to do so (her voice, her look and the fact that she was _Margaret_ were all in her favour) – it was some personal matter of Mr. Hale's, and he really had no right to pry.

Outwardly he showed no sign of any disquiet or further curiosity, but he could not let the matter rest. While Margaret was occupied speaking quietly to Mr. Bell, he seized his opportunity and approached Lennox.

After a few words of greeting were exchanged (a little abrupt on Thornton's part, rather surprised on Lennox's), Lennox's gaze drifted to Margaret. 'How is she coping?' he asked.

Although the fact that Lennox dared ask about his wife made his hackles rise, at the same time the genuine concern in the man's eyes prevented him from snapping. 'She is coping.' He could not say _coping well_ – who ever did so? 'She misses him greatly, but she will get through this.'

Lennox nodded, and then he looked at Thornton seriously. 'I know you may have a very different impression from when we first met, but–' he coloured, but then continued, his words coming out in a rush –'I am glad that Margaret has you.'

Thornton was taken aback. Such a sentiment, and coming from _this _man of all people, was staggering. Despite himself he felt a grudging respect for him – he knew that had their circumstances been reversed, had _he _been lucky enough to be loved by Margaret, he would never have been able to be so gracious to the husband who had stolen her away from him.

What did this mean? Had Lennox given up Margaret? Had their conversation been a final goodbye?

Recovering from his surprise and the other burning questions flitting through his mind, he managed a nod of acknowledgement. Both men seemed as if they did not know quite where to look after that, so Thornton was glad when Lennox ventured another comment. 'She has had to bear so much in these past few months.' They both gazed across the courtyard at Margaret, whose pallor contrasted against the black of her mourning made her look almost ghostly. 'First her mother, then her father, and now this uncertainty over Frederick–'

His head snapped around to face Lennox, and he strove to keep his voice steady. 'Frederick?'

Lennox, who was still looking over at Margaret, did not seem to notice anything unusual. 'Yes, she hasn't heard anything from him since he came to Milton, and she wanted to know if I knew anything about–'

He was interrupted by Mr. Bell, who had come up just then, with Margaret in tow. Grateful as Thornton was to the old man for his kindness to Margaret and his efforts to keep her spirits up, he could have cursed him for not delaying for just a minute more his kindly insistence that Thornton and Lennox come take tea with him before heading back to Milton and London respectively.

Thornton had plenty of time to ponder on what he had heard throughout tea and the long train journey home, the others' conversation at Mr. Bell's lodgings and Margaret's abstracted silence on the train leaving him in peace with his thoughts, but apart from wild questions and conjectures, he found he was none the wiser.

His short-lived relief had faded, for now he knew that the man at the station had not been Lennox, had been this Frederick fellow instead; that Margaret was sick with worry about Frederick's whereabouts and safety; that she still cared so much that she would make efforts to find him.

Who was Frederick? A lover of Margaret's, maybe, but _who _was he? Not a Milton man. Someone from London? Or perhaps from Helstone.

Had her parents known of their attachment? Had they approved of it? If they had, then when her reputation had been suffering, why not make her marry the man whom she loved, whom she had probably been betrothed to? Why him instead?

Had this Frederick perhaps been unavailable at the time? Out of the country, with an address unknown, with no tidings being sent home to those who worried about him? A military man, perhaps. A soldier, or a sailor, whose being in active duty for his country had prevented him from marrying Margaret at once.

His heart sank as he thought of the likely heroic and courageous Frederick: a handsome young man who was willing to put his life on the line for his country, a brave man who defended others, one who would no doubt achieve glory in his career if he hadn't already. The thought came inevitably that he himself presented such a woeful comparison: here he was, aged prematurely by his experiences, toiling day after day in a system in which he profited from the sweat and tears of his downtrodden employees, working for nobody's glory but simply seeking to make the rich richer and the poor poorer – and, worst of all, failing in even that, dragging Margaret down with him into poverty and strife.

No wonder she loved this Frederick.

He stole a glance at her as she looked out of the window, her gaze faraway, and his stomach clenched with longing. It would have been an inexpressible relief to him to shout at her and fling accusations at her, but he found that he could not even blame her – and that was the worst thing of all.


	17. Loans and Letters

**A/N:** I _literally_ wrote this chapter in one sitting today (following two months of writing NOTHING for this story) after receiving yet another lovely review urging me to continue – you see, guys? Reviews can work miracles!

Thank you all so much for sticking with this story so faithfully. As always, tell me what you think (and maybe you may galvanise me into writing chapter 18)!

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen – Loans and Letters**

* * *

When, three weeks after the funeral, the only mail Margaret received was from Edith, she decided that enough was enough. She could not bear to live in this wretched suspense without at least _doing _something about it.

For all she knew the explanation for Fred's silence could simply be that his letter had gotten lost in the mail. Perhaps he was even now in Cadiz scratching his head and wondering why she hadn't replied, perhaps refraining from sending another letter in case her silence was meant as a warning of danger to the continued secrecy of his whereabouts.

The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to believe it. Could she not send him a letter to inquire, to simply ascertain his safety? Surely that would not be putting him at any risk, and it would afford her some much needed peace of mind simply to know he was safe.

And if he was safe, then she could tell Mr. Thornton the whole truth and end this concealment which was eating away at her. Perhaps she could then try and salvage their relationship and attempt to rebuild his trust in her. It would be difficult, but she would spend her life trying, if that was what it took to make things work.

But those were distant thoughts – several weeks away at best. First things first: she must write that letter. Her writing materials set out, she began:

_21__st__ April, 1852_

_Dear Fred..._

* * *

Mr. Thornton had spent his morning in a meeting at the bank with Mr. Latimer, discussing his loan options, but matters weren't looking promising.

Since the strike, production was still lagging behind orders, so much so that he couldn't see them catching up any time in the near future, and several of his debtors had yet to pay him for the cotton he had delivered them. Of course most of them would pay eventually, but 'eventually' might just be too late for Marlborough Mills.

He needed money, and he needed it now. And if he hadn't decided to invest it in the new machinery, he would have it.

But no – it was no use thinking like that. It had been a sound business decision at the time – they had been doing exceedingly well and it would have been a valuable investment if they had been able to sustain the cash flow at that level.

'The bank can extend the loan – temporarily,' Mr. Latimer said, 'but perhaps you might want to look into other avenues of raising money. I know that your brother-in-law, Watson has some scheme to look for South American gold or some such thing.'

Thornton shook his head. 'No,' he said firmly. 'I will _not _risk everything on some idiot money scheme.'

Latimer raised his eyebrows. 'Well, if matters continue, you might not have much left to risk.'

He had no money of his own to risk anyway, even if he were so inclined. He only had the payroll of the money he owed the workers for the next month, and he could not risk that.

Could he?

If the speculation was successful, they would never know. His investment would be returned to him doubled, tripled, perhaps multiplied tenfold. The mill would be saved. He could give his mother and Margaret the security they deserved.

_If_ the speculation was successful.

Thornton's wavering resolution strengthened itself. If the speculation failed, he would have gambled and lost the money of others; he would have brought disgrace to his mother and his wife; he would have become his father save in one particular, and if the speculation failed perhaps their situations would become similar even in that particular.

He would never be able to face Margaret, to look her in the eye again.

At his protracted silence, Latimer began perusing some of the papers on his desk. It was clear that the interview was over.

Thornton rose, and only out of habit, shook hands before leaving the banker's office.

He stopped suddenly in the foyer, his gaze arrested by what he saw outside the window: Margaret, walking towards the post office, stopping just outside, glancing about her before she went in. She pulled what was unmistakably a letter out of her reticule as she opened the door and disappeared inside.

His heart began to race and for over a minute he simply stood, frozen, painful thoughts of curiosity, supposition and conjecture passing through his mind.

Finally as he saw her exit the post office again, he was galvanised into action. Exiting the bank, he quickened his steps so that he was catching up with her. Perhaps she would think him impertinent for asking, but he could _not _live with doubt and suspicion hanging over him any longer.

Today, once and for all he was going to find out _who_ the man at the station was.

* * *

Margaret jumped as she felt the light touch at her elbow, but then her face split into a smile as she saw Mr. Thornton before her. 'I didn't know you were in town this morning,' she commented as they naturally fell into step with one another. 'What brings you here?'

'I had a meeting with my banker,' he said shortly. She looked at him in surprise at his tone, but then as she saw the gnawing worry of _something_ in his eyes, she pushed down the urge to take issue with his manner. This was not about her; she knew she had done nothing recently to provoke him – almost certainly he hadn't meant to snap at her. She knew now not to take it personally; she knew now that it was a symptom caused by something outside of herself.

She slipped her arm through his. 'Is anything the matter?' she asked softly.

His head snapped around as he looked at her sharply, eyes slightly widened. Then he looked away from her, shaking his head. 'No, no, nothing like that,' he muttered. Then with a visible effort he spoke sounding more cheerful. 'So what brings you into town this morning?'

She had sighed almost imperceptibly at his change of subject; she knew there was more to the matter than he was letting on. Perhaps the business was in trouble? If he would only tell her, perhaps she could reassure him or discuss it with him to try and think of anything he could do. But she could hardly expect complete honesty from him when she had deceived him so grossly and for so many months.

She tried to rouse herself to answer him and take his mind off his troubles, whatever they might be. 'Well, first I went to Princeton to visit the children, and Tom and I sat together and spent some time reading out one of those books he always seems to have about him to the others.' She smiled at the memory. 'You know, I think he's really improved a lot – he reads quite fluently now and hardly ever hesitates. And then we all played dress-up for a while with some of the old clothes I had worn as a child; you should have seen them all trying on the dresses – even the boys wore–'

He had smiled, but there was something a little pained about it. 'And then?' he broke in suddenly. 'Where did you go then?'

'I came straight here, where I met you,' she said, puzzled.

His face darkened. 'You didn't go to the post office?'

She didn't understand what she had said to anger him. 'Yes, I did, not five minutes ago, to send a letter.'

His eyes narrowed. 'To Edith?'

At no time would Margaret have ever given the easy answer 'Yes, to Edith'. Perhaps six months ago, she wouldn't have appreciated his questioning her with such obvious suspicion and would have coldly refused to tell him anything; now, she knew she owed it to him and she truly wished to tell him the truth. What truth she could, anyway. 'No, not to Edith,' she said quietly.

'Might I enquire to whom then?' he asked stiffly.

She looked up into his face earnestly. 'Of course – you have every right to ask, and I do so wish I could tell you.' Her gaze became pleading. 'But I cannot tell you now – there is too much at risk. However, I can promise that some day soon, I will tell you all; you will be the first to know.'

For a moment he was silent, as if thinking it over, and then he nodded slowly. 'Very well,' he said in a tone that was more tolerably his usual.

As they walked together back to Marlborough, what conversation they had stilted and pointedly avoiding the topics of banks and post-offices, loans and letters, Margaret hoped fervently that one day all this constraint would be done away with, and they could talk fully, openly, unreservedly.

If only that day would come soon.


	18. Secrets and Speculation

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for the tremendous response to the last chapter (I think that's the most people I've heard from for any one chapter) – I really, really appreciate it.

I have an exam tomorrow based on the whole semester's coursework, for which I still have some stuff left to study; and – naturally – that was when inspiration for this story struck. I of course knew my priorities – inspiration for this story has been so rare these days that I got to writing immediately.

So... I may not do very well on my exam, but at least I'll have your reviews to look forward to (pretty please?)!

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen – Secrets and Speculation**

* * *

For some weeks now her father's death had served as Margaret's excuse for not visiting Fanny at her new home, but now its plausibility had expired and so she found herself paying a morning call at the Watsons' home, trying to pay attention to her sister-in-law's effusions on Indian wallpaper and Chinese silk.

The furniture, decorations and ornaments were very fine, and no doubt very expensive, and yet the effect lacked the warmth and comfort of the Hales' residences at Helstone and Crampton, and the sheer number of items created an impression of clutter which her home could never be accused of, however much she might feel it to be a little austere at times.

Her favourite rooms in the Thornton house were the bedchamber she shared with Mr. Thornton and the little parlour he had set aside for her use. She had been told to and had decorated the latter to her taste, and although there had been no plans to renovate the former, it too had acquired somewhat more of a welcoming feel than it had used to have.

Where before it had been perfectly adequate for its function, albeit rather stark and impersonal, now it contained little traces of its inhabitants in the hairbrush which lay on the chest, the vase on the side table which Margaret tried every so often to refill with flowers from the park, the small pile of books which had accumulated on Mr. Thornton's bedside table, his coat which would be draped over the chair, her hat which had made its home on top of the wardrobe.

It was in this room that Margaret felt closest to Mr. Thornton. In this room the pressures of the outside world, of pretending that they were a normal couple, of worrying about business matters concerning the mill were fainter, less prominent. It was in this room that she felt they were more _themselves_ than anywhere else. It was a pleasant respite from real life, and on the occasions that he was able to make it back from the mill at a reasonable hour, they could simply wind down before sleep, talk about their day and enjoy one another's company.

It was nice. It was comfortable, except for the times when she would wake up in his arms, both of them having somehow during the night gravitated towards one another. Those moments would cause a sharp pang in her heart as they provided a glimpse of the warmth and affection that could have once been hers, that Mr. Thornton did not display towards her when awake, that was only given to her now because he was unconscious of bestowing it. In those moments she would close her eyes, shift herself closer to him and pretend to have been asleep all along.

In the morning, by the time she woke up, he would have already risen, leaving her cold and empty. Thank goodness they had never yet found themselves awake at the same time; she did not think she could bear to see his rejection or the disgust in his eyes at her wantonness.

'So what do you think, Miss Hale?' Fanny asked, a little impatiently, her voice breaking into Margaret's abstracted thoughts.

Margaret roused herself to answer, suppressing her smile at Fanny's persistence in calling her by her old name. Even Mrs. Thornton was calling her "Margaret" these days. 'It is very fine indeed,' she said.

Fanny was gratified. 'Yes, I chose it myself from the Exhibition.' Then her smile became a little patronising. 'If you would like, I could procure some for you too, so that you might replace those dismal papers back at home.'

It took Margaret a moment to realise that by "home" Fanny meant Marlborough, but then she smiled. 'That's very kind of you,' she said, 'but I do not think we need to change the wallpapers we have already.'

Fanny nodded in understanding. 'Oh, I see,' she said sympathetically. 'I suppose it's not everyone who can afford new decorations.'

Margaret's smile faded. The comment, true or not, had been in rather poor taste, and although Margaret had always rather disliked the genteel pretences her mother would uphold when they had visitors at Helstone, wondering aloud what delicacies the cook had made for tea when they both knew perfectly well that Dixon had with Mrs. Hale's help made some of her cocoa-nut cakes, she thought it was perfectly tactless of her sister-in-law to allude to the Thorntons' possible financial straits.

The fact that she herself was just as uninformed as Fanny as to the degree of severity of those straits annoyed her perhaps more than her sister-in-law's thinly veiled gloating at her own wealth.

Perhaps fortunately, before she could make any of the very scathing reply which was on the tip of her tongue, Fanny began speaking once more. 'Although,' she said, 'when John takes part in the speculation Watson has found, he'll be rich again, soon enough.'

Margaret tried not to let her surprise show in her words. 'Speculation?'

Fanny waved her hand impatiently. 'Yes, the scheme Watson is going to let John invest in – the South American gold expedition.' She frowned slightly in confusion. 'I'm not sure entirely how it works, but there's no doubt that's where the money is today.'

Mr. Thornton may not have told her anything about this speculation, but whatever else he may have neglected to mention still Margaret was sure she knew him well enough to know that he would never take part. 'I don't think he'd agree to invest in such a risky venture,' she said firmly.

Mr. Thornton made sound business decisions based on hard fact and likely probabilities, and he thought twice before everything he did – he would never pin his hopes on a scheme which had only a marginal chance of success, a scheme whose potential benefits were exaggerated by those who wished to rope others into it. When he had a family to support, not to mention a multitude of workers whose lives depended upon the continued success of the mill, her Mr. Thornton had far too much integrity – not to mention sense – to ever risk it all on a venture that was nothing more than a gamble.

Fanny pursed her lips, but said nothing more on the subject. Perhaps she sensed Margaret's disdain for the scheme or perhaps she simply preferred to bring the conversation back to her new silk cushions. Whatever the case, Margaret heard nothing more about the speculation until she got home.

* * *

'Is the speculation so very risky?' Mrs. Thornton had not seen the mill's accounts, but although she did not know the exact figures, she was worried – so much so that she worried at his having rejected the opportunity so soon; so much so that she was willing to even consider speculation as an option.

Her son closed his tired eyes for a moment. 'Do you need to ask me that, Mother?' His fingers massaged his temples. 'It's very risky – there's no guarantee of success or even any against loss. And on top of all that, the only ready money I have in my possession is the workers' payroll – would you advise me to risk that?'

She shook her head slowly. 'Our circumstances are dire, to be sure – but do whatever you think is right, John,' she said, and then both of them turned at the sound of the door opening.

Margaret walked into the room, apparently back from her call at Fanny's, and she had a strange expression on her face which Mrs. Thornton could not quite read, but which made her wonder if she had heard any of their conversation.

Indeed, even just finding her husband and mother-in-law having private discussions which she was not privy to would be enough to justify any feelings of hurt and resentment. Mrs. Thornton had told John before this that he should be more open with Margaret, and not shut her out of his confidence as he persisted in doing, but thus far to the best of her knowledge he had remained stubborn.

'I should be getting back to the mill,' John said to the room at large, before walking abruptly out the door, not observing his wife's face fall.

Mrs. Thornton sighed. She was determined not to interfere in her son and daughter-in-law's concerns, but times like these she dearly wished to.

* * *

Even though Margaret had determined to wait up for Mr. Thornton tonight, she had fallen asleep over her book. She stirred at the sound of the door opening as he entered their bedchamber, and through the darkness she squinted to see him retreating to the dressing-room to change for bed.

She was sensible of her luck at awakening, and decided that next time she tried to remain awake, she would not undress (a corset was probably her best safeguard against getting comfortable enough to fall asleep) or sit on the bed.

Some minutes later, he had climbed in next to her, lying on his side, his back to her. Tentatively she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. She could feel him stiffen for a moment under her touch before he relaxed. 'Mr. Thornton?' she said quietly.

He slowly turned to lie on his other side so as to face her. 'Hmm?'

'Earlier today, I heard...' She hesitated for a moment, and in the gloom didn't observe something like panic flit through his eyes. 'I heard from Fanny that Mr. Watson wished you to take part in a speculation?'

Mr. Thornton breathed an inward sigh of relief, but it faded as he thought that one day – perhaps soon – the time would come when Margaret actually _would_ find out about the situation with the mill because it could no longer be hidden. Perhaps, painful as the consequences would be, he should tell her himself, let her go if that was what she wanted, end this deception which he was growing to despise himself for.

But that could come later, perhaps on the morrow, when they were both more than half-awake. For now he would simply answer her questions truthfully. 'That is true,' he said, and then unsure of how she would respond, he continued, 'but I have refused the opportunity.'

To his immense surprise, she smiled. 'That was just what I told Fanny you would do,' she said, sounding pleased. 'I knew you would never risk hurting your workers with such a scheme.'

He felt a bubble of warmth well up inside him at the thought that she knew him so well. 'Then you think I made the right decision?'

She reached out to place a hand on his arm, smiling softly. 'Of course – you made a sound business decision; but even more than that, you acted with integrity.'

He smiled back, but then turned to lie flat on his back so that he wasn't looking at her anymore. He _couldn't_, not if she were smiling at him like that – did she not realise how difficult it was for him _not_ to take her into his arms and–

Her hand which had been on his arm was now resting on his chest and she had not moved it away. He stiffened for a moment, afraid that she would be able to feel the frantic thumping of his heart in his chest, but if she did, she gave no indication of it.

After a minute or so, he turned his head slightly to sneak a glance at her, and saw that her eyes were closed and her breathing was regular. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding – a breath of mingled relief and disappointment – before closing his own eyes and trying to follow her example and fall asleep.


	19. A Business Matter

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay, guys. Explanation same as before – this story is still taking up a huge effort to think of ideas and logical development, to sit down and write, to find the actual words, to get back into the feel of the characters, etc.

Thank you so much to everyone who's been reviewing, and adding this to favourites and alerts. I know that if it weren't for you guys I would probably have given up long ago. I sincerely hope you keep it up, and tell me what you think of this addition!

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen – A Business Matter**

* * *

Margaret had spent her morning reviewing the items she had catalogued for the auction of the Hales' possessions which was to take place soon before their lease on the Crampton house ran out. It was a task that had the benefit of being both useful and absorbing, and her thoughts had not had much time to wander to the multiple anxieties which had been preying upon her for some time now. Instead she had spent a quiet morning going over the desired prices she wished to fetch. Mrs. Thornton, trying her hardest not to look reluctant, had gone to spend a morning at Fanny's, so Margaret had had the house to herself, with nothing to distract her from her task.

Until Mr. Thornton unexpectedly entered the room, looking rather pale and agitated. Margaret was immediately alarmed, not just from his manner, but also from the unusual circumstance of his returning to the house at this time of day. It was not yet time for luncheon, and he had been so busy at the mill of late that a visit such as this in the middle of the morning was completely unprecedented.

She stood hurriedly. 'Mr. Thornton, is something the matter?' She could not help her concern showing in her voice.

His eyes settled briefly on her face before flickering around the room, not remaining on any object. 'No – yes – that is, I wanted to speak with you about something important.'

'Of course,' she said quickly. 'You can speak with me about anything.'

He hesitated a moment. 'You may want to sit down.'

Margaret had never been the type to faint – or pretend to do so – upon hearing momentous bad news, but nevertheless she obeyed him because something about his manner warned her that she might actually be better off seated when hearing this.

He took the chair opposite her and sighed. 'There is no easy way to say this,' he said, and paused for a moment.

In that one long moment of silence, her imagination presented her with every horrible possibility – Henry had sent him news of Fred's ship having sunk; he no longer wished to see her because he could not bear her concealment any longer; his mother, Nicholas, Mary, one of the Boucher children, someone was dead–

'The mill is failing,' he said in a rush, and then his shoulders slumped as if a great weight had fallen off them.

She closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmingly relieved that it had not been anything worse, and dismayed that everything he had worked for for so many years was now in jeopardy. However, the news was not entirely unexpected. She was well aware of the poor economic climate in Milton following the strike, and she had witnessed for herself the long hours Mr. Thornton had spent at the mill, and the seemingly perpetual worry which had creased his brow for so long now.

Memory after memory of his turning away from her when she had tried to find out what was wrong played out behind her eyes. 'How long?' she asked quietly.

He looked at her briefly, but then he stared at a vase on the side table, seemingly finding that easier than meeting her eyes. 'Since November,' he admitted. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. 'But I thought we could overcome it then – I thought there was no occasion to worry you. But then it didn't get better, and I... I couldn't tell you.'

This caused Margaret a sharp pang. Had she been so cold, so unapproachable that he had felt he could not confide in her? Or had this been his revenge for her own failure to confide in _him_? Perhaps she ought to have felt angry with him for hiding the truth from her, but it would be hypocrisy in her to feel that way, and anyway she did not have the heart for it. Right now she just wished she could do something – anything – to smooth out that worried crease in his brow, to bring some light back to those despairing eyes.

She nodded. 'I can understand that,' she said softly. 'But it is not important now. We need to try and think of what we can do.'

His eyes snapped up to meet hers, incredulity and some other strong emotion glowing in them. 'What _we_ can do?'

She was a little confused at his reaction, but she nodded anyway. 'Of course – in such a situation we must think of what options are open to us. We must keep trying – we must not give up.'

He sighed heavily and, worried that he was too much overcome to move forward with her plan, she reached out to lay her hand over his in reassurance. However, even before she did so he gave her the warmest, most heartfelt smile she had ever seen.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart sped up as he took her hand within his and gave it a slight squeeze. 'You are right, of course,' he said finally, and a new determination was in his eyes. '_We_ must not give up.'

She smiled tentatively, and despite the motions of his thumb rubbing softly over the skin of her hand and playing havoc with her concentration, she tried to press on. 'I do not know much about these matters,' she admitted, 'so please forgive me if I am too blunt in my questions.' He nodded in acknowledgement, and she continued. 'Are you in any debt?'

He shook his head. 'Thankfully, not yet. But I have very little ready money. Everything is invested in the new machinery I installed two years ago. It was a good decision at the time, and if we had continued to do well, it would have given me a great return.'

'I assume ready money would be required for the purchase of things like the raw cotton, and to pay the workers?' He nodded. 'So if the mill were to continue running, you would need ready money?'

'That is right,' he said, but then he sighed. 'I do not know where I can get it, though. Speculation is out of the question, and I could not get any serious investors at the Great Exhibition – and that was in a time of prosperity – who would wish to invest now when the cotton industry for the whole of Milton is in a slump?'

Margaret smiled slightly. 'Only the most astute of investors. Someone with money to spare, and the foresight to invest it. The industry can't remain like this forever – it must get better one day, and one day soon – thereby repaying the investor tenfold or more for his patience. Father used to tell me about this sort of thing after we had moved to Milton. He was fascinated by how the industry worked.'

Mr. Thornton was now looking at her with open admiration, and despite the circumstances which had brought it about, despite the misfortune of the mill, Margaret thought she had never felt so happy. She knew that she and Mr. Thornton could never be a conventional couple, and she knew he would not love her again as he had once done, but now she knew that she could gain his respect. And if she had his friendship and respect, then that would be enough to make her almost content.

'I do believe you are right,' he said, but then he smiled ruefully. 'Although I do not know if we will find anyone in Milton with money to _spare_. It has been a hard winter for everyone, I believe.'

Margaret reflected on this point, and decided to let it rest. She opened up a new line of enquiry. 'I know it is not polite to ask in terms of exact figures,' she began hesitantly, and then her voice gained some confidence, 'but I believe it would be most efficient that way. How much would you say we required to save the mill?'

He thought for a moment, genuinely considering her question, and it did not even seem to occur to him that as a master and a man some would have expected him to be offended. 'Ten thousand pounds at least,' he said finally, and she let out a shaky breath as the magnitude of their struggle became clear to her. 'That, of course, is the amount which would be guaranteed to keep us out of danger for a year,' he added hastily, upon seeing her expression. 'Two thousand or so would suffice to keep us clear for the next eight weeks or so.'

'Two _thousand _pounds,' she breathed, and now it seemed that he would be the one to reassure her, for his fingers exerted a gentle, reassuring pressure on the hand which he still held in his.

'I may have invested most of what I have into the machinery, but I do have ready savings to the amount of eight hundred pounds.' He gave her a small smile. 'It is very little in business terms, but it is something, at least. I just was not sure if it was wise to invest that into the mill to keep it running for a mere few weeks longer – I thought we might need the money if we are forced to seek out another path in life.'

She nodded, his words giving her heart, strengthening her determination to keep trying. 'My father was never very wealthy, but I know he left me some money. I cannot remember how much it was; I will have to check with Henry – I know it could not have been more than a few hundred pounds at the most, but it will help, I hope.'

His eyes widened in what might have been astonishment, but then he frowned slightly. 'Are you sure you wish to put the money your father left you – _your _money – into the mill? Should you not keep it, in case–'

'Mr. Thornton,' Margaret said firmly, looking up into his eyes, almost angry that he could think in such a way, 'we must think practically. Our only chance consists in combining our efforts – divided, we do not have a hope. We _must _do this together, and I am willing to do all I can to help – everything I have is yours.'

He was looking at her with a gaze that seemed searching her face for sincerity, and some strong emotion shone out of his eyes. 'Margaret,' he said in a low voice, and a hand came up to caress her cheek.

She did not even have time to lean into his touch before a knock at the drawing room door made them both hastily draw back from one another. Jane entered the room to announce Nicholas even as she gave him a disdainful look (apparently sharing Dixon's feeling that he should not be allowed in the drawing room like a genteel visitor) and he seemed impatient at the convention which had her tell the master and mistress what they could clearly see for themselves, that he had something to say to them.

He took off his hat, but did not go so far as to bow – that would be ridiculous when he simply had a message to deliver before returning to the work which required his attention. 'Master,' he said to Thornton, 'there's a gentleman from London to see yo'. He's waiting in your office.'

Margaret and Thornton exchanged a perplexed glance – if the gentleman were Henry, he would surely require Margaret's presence too, and what other London gentleman would come to Milton to see him? – but then Thornton nodded. 'I will go there.'

Even as he rose and made his way out of the room, Nicholas and Jane in his wake, a sudden alarming thought occurred to Margaret. What if Henry had heard some terrible news of Frederick's fate, and he wished to tell Mr. Thornton first so that someone could break it to her?

The blood drained out of her face and all she could do was sit and wait, unsure if the suspense or the knowledge were the most dreadful.


	20. Kindred Spirits

**A/N:** It was fun reading all your predictions as to who the London gentleman would be/why he had come!

Once again, I must say that I'm sorry it took so long for me to update; I know how frustrating it is for readers when a story is unfinished and slow to be completed. I am trying, I promise.

Still – hope you like this chapter; please let me know your thoughts!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty – Kindred Spirits**

* * *

The gentleman had been waiting in the office for ten minutes when he heard the footsteps approaching the door. He smiled slightly, pleased. Ten minutes was a good time, and the footsteps he heard were brisk but yet not unduly hurried. The masters of the other mills had fallen into two categories: they had either kept him waiting for well over half an hour as if trying to show him that they were above a posh Londoner such as himself, or they had rushed in out of breath, and had proceeded to fawn over him, obviously in the hope that he would invest in their mills. Both sets of men were invariably cold and indifferent once he revealed his interest in getting their advice for setting up a mill of his own (and thereby killing their hope that they could get money out of him).

The gentleman rose as the man entered, and before he even introduced himself, he knew that this was Mr. Thornton, master of Marlborough mill. He held himself upright and straight, enhancing his figure which already bore him above the common height of men, and there was a grounded self-assurance in him, the look of a man who was in his element; a man who knew exactly what he had to do and who was ready to dare anything. 'My name is Colthurst,' the gentleman said, as they shook hands.

* * *

Having concluded the tour of the mill – its floors with the power looms, the carding rooms, the yard where the bales were assembled, the dining hall – Thornton and Colthurst were now sitting in his office discussing the cotton industry and means of production, and the probabilities of the market. At first Thornton had been inwardly exasperated at what he thought was another starry-eyed Londoner assuming he could just snap his fingers to make a fortune in cotton, but as their tour had progressed, the questions the man asked and the comments he made showed not only the knowledge of a man who had read widely on the subject, but also a genuine interest in the industry as well as a keen intelligence which Thornton would always respect when he came across it.

He could tell that despite being a Southerner, Colthurst was no stranger to the mechanics of the industry, and had all the makings of a sound businessman. Thornton was sure that Colthurst's mill, if and when it opened, would be successful – perhaps the more because he seemed to understand some of Thornton's views on the importance of a master's relationship with his workers which all the other Milton masters had scoffed at.

In fact, he had been especially intrigued by Thornton's implementation of the dining hall, and they were enthusiastically discussing the plans he might consider pursuing in the future.

'The merits of a system such as the workers' dining hall is that it is mutually beneficial. They all get at least one square meal a day, and I have healthier – and therefore more productive – workers,' explained Mr. Thornton. 'It is also good in that it brings me into direct contact with my men, and having formed a sort of friendship with one of them and having gotten to know several others, there is a greater understanding between us. We still have our differences, and perhaps we always will, but I believe we can appreciate each others' point of view now. Any experiments like the dining hall which can bring us together, and facilitate this kind of empathy are worth trying, I think.'

Colthurst had been listening intently. 'You call them "experiments", I notice.'

Thornton nodded. 'Because that is what I believe them to be. There is no predicting their full consequences, but I believe there is merit in trying them out. If your workers can see that you are concerned not only with the success of your business but also with their welfare, to a certain extent it will temper their resentment if you are unable to raise their wages at the expected time, for they will have a surer conviction that you would not do so out of mere greed or spite.'

'And do you believe such schemes can do away with strikes?'

Thornton smiled ruefully. 'Not at all. I do not think anything could do away with strikes entirely – but it might perhaps render them less the bitter, venomous sources of hatred they have always been in the past.'

'You had such a strike here in Milton less than a year ago, did you not?' Thornton nodded. 'That must have been a hard blow.'

At the unfortunate simile, Thornton's mind was immediately cast back to the literal blow Margaret had sustained from the rioting strikers all those months ago. The fateful motion of that rock, the force of impact, the slow trickle of blood... It was what had set into motion the chain of events which brought them to where they were now – for if she had not been seen with her arms around him to protect him, rumours would not have spread to tarnish her reputation, and she would not have been compelled to marry him.

Not that she herself would have paid any heed to what others said about her reputation when her own conscience told her it was untainted. In fact, he was almost glad to have been rejected by her so vehemently before her father's persuasion had forced her to marry him. Otherwise he might have been under the same misapprehensions about her feelings for him which had led him to blunder his way through that first foolish proposal, and he might have imposed upon her in some strange, presumptuous way. However much he still wanted to, he had too much respect for her and pride in himself to do so.

When he had said to her all those months ago, _the day I touch you will be the day you welcome it_, even then he had had no real hope that it was a day that would ever come. It was more the concept of the power of choice being with her; he had been trying to assure her that she had nothing to fear from him. He was glad that their marriage had begun on that note, with the establishment of trust, however much it had been wanting in both of them in the months that followed.

Now that he knew at least that he would not lose her, he felt almost content. He could almost resign himself to a life beside her spent in mere friendship – they made a good team, and with the respect and admiration which he now knew was mutual, they would no doubt be quite happy together. He should be grateful for that... but still he could not help yearning for her complete acceptance, for a true marriage of hearts and minds, and perhaps he never would stop yearning while he had breath in his body.

'Mr. Thornton?'

He started, and then with an effort dragged his thoughts back to the present. 'I apologise,' he said quickly, 'my mind was elsewhere.' Thinking back to Colthurst's question, he attempted to answer it. 'The time of the strike was indeed a difficult one. Because we did not operate the mill for some five weeks, we fell a great deal behind on fulfilling our orders – I imagine the situation was similar in all the mills. In fact, months later, we are still feeling the repercussions.'

'Do you mind if I ask in what ways?' Colthurst inquired, with a delicate increase of respect in his manner.

Mr. Thornton smiled slightly, correctly interpreting the man's question as evidence of an eagerness to know more rather than impertinence or a deliberate desire to belittle or offend. 'Not at all. It is not due to any carelessness or mistake of my own, unless you interpret my investing most of my money into new machinery as a lack of foresight – which I can acknowledge. The biggest setback is that we fell behind in the production of the cotton, which left us with orders to catch up on, and new orders to complete before we could even be paid for anything. And when one includes the delay which the debtors cause before they pay, we have had to run for several months with no new money coming in. I am afraid that matters are not looking promising for the mill's future at the moment,' he continued frankly, 'but we are hoping for the best and will keep trying.'

Colthurst smiled and as he stood to leave, he held out his hand, which Thornton shook. 'Well, I wish you success and the best of luck – although, astute as you are, I doubt you will even need it.'

Thornton laughed. 'Luck is always valuable. For years I prided myself on rising to my position by my own hard work and nothing else, but it is only when I see it in jeopardy from no fault of my own that I can appreciate how much luck has played a part in my success until now.'

'Then I do wish you the best of luck – I would be sorry to see Marlborough Mill close before you can realise your experiments.'

'So would I,' said Thornton, smiling slightly. 'But I have not given up hope just yet.' In fact, after the morning's precious conversation with Margaret, all his hope and determination had been renewed, and he felt ready to take on the world, knowing that she would be by his side.

* * *

After Colthurst left, Thornton began going through the month's accounts. It was disheartening work, for they were no closer to catching up. The strike, in necessitating the hiring of some not very skilled Irish workers, had struck again in slowing down production. But still he tried to hold out hope – at least they had not fallen any _further_ behind. If they could just keep going, try and keep afloat until money came from somewhere, they just might weather the storm.

He was so absorbed in his work that he did not even notice Margaret knocking at the door and entering until she was inside the room. Of its own accord a smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he saw her.

She smiled back, holding up a basket. 'I thought you might have forgotten to eat again.'

Even had he had any desire to deny the fact, his stomach gave him away by grumbling loudly. Instead of ignoring it like a polite lady probably would have been expected to, she laughed, and then she raised an amused eyebrow. 'I am proved right, you see.'

There was no disputing it even if he had wanted to, and so he submitted to opening the basket and partaking of its fare with her. After giving him a chance to make some progress through his meal, she asked, 'So who was your visitor?'

She looked tense; worried, almost, beneath her cheerful exterior. The Thornton of a month ago might have immediately felt a cloud descend over his heart as he thought of the man at the station, and her worry that Henry – the most natural assumption to make upon hearing of a London gentleman visiting him – would let slip the truth to him. But now he trusted in her words that she would tell him all when the time was right. He knew she must have her reasons for keeping silent, and her quiet declaration that they would make their way out of their financial predicament together had convinced his head of what his heart had perhaps always known – she would stay with him, and no matter how deceptive appearances had been, that man had not been her lover. Margaret was honourable, and he was just ashamed of himself for not believing it sooner.

He roused himself to answer her question. 'A gentleman called Colthurst. He is interested in setting up a cotton mill, and has been visiting many of the mills in Milton to learn more about how the industry works.'

Margaret looked thoughtful. 'Colthurst? I am sure I have heard that name somewhere before, though I cannot recall where.'

Thornton was at a loss. 'He is from London – perhaps you may have heard someone in your circle of acquaintance mention him.' He shook his head slightly impatiently, not unduly curious on that score. 'Anyway, he seems a very keen, intelligent fellow. We had an interesting talk about the dining hall and my other plans.'

Margaret looked interested. 'And what did he think of them?'

'He was fascinated by the idea of encouraging greater involvement in the outcomes of production by employees at all levels; he is thinking of implementing similar schemes in his own mill when he opens it.'

Margaret beamed with pride. 'That is wonderful – to think that _your_ plans may effect a trend; that they _have_ already influenced one other!' She was looking at him with open admiration, and could he have felt deserving, he would have basked in it.

'I might never have even started the scheme or become friends with Nicholas if it weren't for you,' he said quickly, unwilling to take undue credit.

Margaret shook her head. 'No, your conscience would have led you to Nicholas, even if I had said nothing, I am sure. I know you – you are honourable like that.'

He swallowed. 'It would seem you know me better than I know myself,' he said softly.

She smiled a little tremulously. 'It would seem that that is my task, Mr. Thornton,' she said. 'I am your wife, after all.'

'Yes,' he said. 'You are.'


	21. Plans for the Future

**A/N:** Oh God… I'm almost embarrassed to be posting another chapter SO LONG after the previous one. But anyway, as always I'd love to hear what you think of it!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty One – Plans for the Future**

* * *

In the days that followed, Mrs. Thornton was not blind to the shifts in her son and daughter-in-law's relationship. Now both rather sought than avoided each others' company, and instead of averted gazes they followed each other with their eyes. Both went about their day with small smiles on their faces as if recollecting some pleasant memory. Her son now kissed his wife's cheek in goodbye as he left for the mill in the morning, and where previously Mrs. Thornton might have felt uncomfortable at witnessing the public display of affection, now even as she pretended not to observe it she was secretly pleased for both of them.

She had observed with some amusement the performance the first time it had been enacted: her son had hesitated and looked anxious and had finally kissed her cheek quickly, leaving the room almost immediately after, and Margaret had waited until he had left to let the silly smile spread over her face. Now it had become part of their daily routine.

Something had happened, something had changed between them. And yet it was not what Mrs. Thornton had originally thought, for then she would not catch each gazing with wistful looks when they thought the other wasn't looking. Something still remained unsaid between them, but whatever it was that _had _occurred, it had clearly been a step in the right direction.

She was tempted to say something, to ask: partly out of concern for her son's – and yes, also her daughter-in-law's – welfare and happiness, and partly out of nothing more than simple curiosity. However, she determined against it. What had happened between them was their business and she would not pry.

She went on as if nothing had changed, or so she thought. If anyone had told her that there was a new cordiality, almost a softness in her manner towards her daughter-in-law, she would have been mortified.

* * *

'Are you sure you wish to part with those?'

Margaret nodded. She had made up her mind after much thought. 'I am certain; this is not something that can be done by halves – I must part with everything.'

Mrs. Thornton felt a new respect for her daughter-in-law, but true to her custom, much of her feeling did not show in her words which many not well acquainted with her might have thought indifferent. 'Very well, then.'

The two women were sitting together in the small drawing room of the Crampton house, compiling the final list of the items which were to be sold at the auction of the Hales' belongings which would take place on the morrow.

For Margaret it had been a rather depressing piece of work, but one that had to be done. She could not afford to be sentimental over her parents' belongings and their old furniture from Helstone. The Crampton house had to be cleared, the Thornton house was already fully furnished, and any money that could be had from the auction would be necessary if Marlborough Mills and Mr. Thornton's enterprise were to stand even a chance of surviving.

Perhaps a year ago, Margaret would have been glad to see one of the town's cotton mills – which she had seen as a hell in which workers were exploited and tormented for the profit of the greedy master – close down, but now she knew that such an occurrence would not be liberating for the workers. On the contrary, it would just deprive them of their source of income and drive them to one of the other mills, desperate for work, willing to compromise their wages, their union dues, anything, so long as they could feed their families.

But now Margaret believed in what Mr. Thornton was doing, the changes he was effecting – and she would do all in her power to keep it alive.

* * *

Mr. Thornton had not interfered in the organisation of the auction, which Margaret had taken all upon herself; he knew that it was important to her that _she _be the one to dispatch her parents' belongings. He had offered his help insofar as providing men to help transport everything to the site of the auction (Nicholas and some others had been more than willing to help), and she had accepted gratefully – but that was the extent of his actions.

He had, however, instructed Williams the overseer to go along to the auction, in order to bid for an item he thought Margaret might appreciate.

To be sure, it would not be much of a gift to be presenting her with something her parents had used to own, but he hoped the thought behind it would be one that she would like. It would be a promise of sorts, a sign to tell her that he knew her and thought of how to make her happy; something he would strive to do now as well as in a hopefully more prosperous future.

And at that thought, dismal as the accounts he was tallying were, Mr. Thornton allowed himself a small smile.

* * *

If Margaret had hoped to raise a significant amount through the auction, she was disappointed. And after all, it was no great wonder: the Helstone furniture, the dear old chairs and sofas and tables which had formed the surroundings of her childhood were well-worn and rather shabby; the vases and ornaments, though pretty, were no antiques to bring much value; the once-pretty floral curtains and cushion covers had grown faded.

Actually, the only item to single-handedly raise any significant amount was her father's collection of books, which she had been loath to part with at first. They had been her father's most cherished possessions, and the hours of enjoyment and satisfaction he had gotten from these old, but handsomely bound volumes had made Margaret love them too, long before she had perused their contents for herself. But go they must, she had decided, and though it had caused her a pang to part with them, she was glad she had.

Perhaps the money from the auction was not enough to place the mill out of danger, but every little amount would help, and if she were to add the four hundred pounds from the auction to the eight hundred Mr. Thornton had in his possession, it would guarantee them another six weeks of safety, until they could think of what more they could do.

She, Mr. Thornton and his mother had talked about what steps they could take, and all had agreed – Mrs. Thornton most vehemently of all – that if need be, some of the furniture and ornaments from their house were items they could do without. Mrs. Thornton had even stoically offered the precious damask tablecloths which had been in her family for so long, but Margaret, who had gotten to know her mother-in-law's manner by now, knew what a sacrifice this was to her, and sincerely hoped matters would not grow so desperate as to force them to part with heirlooms.

Yet she could not deny that she was worried, and later that night when they were alone in their bedchamber, she could tell by the expression on her husband's face that he was too. And yet she at least had the comfort of trusting to him, whereas he had to shoulder the majority of this burden by himself.

As she placed a reassuring hand on his arm, she tried to push aside her own worry. 'It will be alright,' she said. Then she smiled a little at the thought which occurred to her. 'Even if we have to give up the mill, we can always move South and become labourers. You can spend the day digging and ploughing the fields, while I cook and iron for my living.'

That sudden beautiful smile came over his face at the picture of poverty she conjured, and despite his low mood, he had to laugh at it. 'Perhaps our circumstances won't be quite _that_ dire, Margaret. Why don't you see if you can sketch out a life for us a few grades above that?'

Margaret pretended to think hard, a mock-serious look on her face. 'Very well, how would you like to keep a shop? You could take care of ordering goods and doing the accounts, and I could serve customers.'

She surprised even herself to find that although she was proposing it as a joke, she would gladly do it if it would help Mr. Thornton. She wondered how she could ever have looked down on 'shoppy people', as she had called them, for attempting to make their lives better by earning an honest living. She flushed a little at the thought of what a silly, ignorant, prejudiced girl she had been.

Mr. Thornton was still smiling. 'That is an idea,' he said, 'but for now let us not give up hope that all may yet turn out well with the mill.'

She nodded, glad to have reassured him, and feeling a little more confident herself. 'The money from the auction will help, for a while at least, I hope.'

He glanced at her quickly, and then said quickly, 'Speaking of the auction, I did ask Williams to bid for an item which I thought you might appreciate.' He looked strange, different somehow as one of his hands played with the chain of his pocket watch, while the other came up to run through his hair. And then it hit her that he seemed nervous, _shy_ almost. It was utterly strange to see the man who was usually so authoritative and confident like this.

She smiled warmly at him, trying to set him at ease. 'I'm sure I will,' she said, taking his arm. 'Will you show me?'

He led her into the small sitting room he had given to her, and then she gasped as she saw her father's old bookcase, the one that had been in his study for as long as she could remember. Rather battered, a little shabby, but that bookcase and its contents had always put her in mind of her father. 'I thought you might want somewhere to keep all your father's books,' he said, watching her face carefully.

She couldn't help her dismay showing, and his face fell. 'What is it?' he said, rather gruffly.

She shook her head. 'Nothing, it's just…' Then she blinked rapidly to get rid of the prickling sensation in her eyes. 'Oh dear, if I had only known…'

Now he looked concerned. 'What is it?' he repeated more urgently, bending his head to get a clearer view of her downturned face. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' she repeated, and now she felt herself smiling. 'Only that you saved my father's bookcase so I could fill it with his books, and I… I sold all his books to raise more money to save the mill.'

Her husband's face seemed to be undecided as to which emotion to express: surprised gratitude that she had sold the books to invest the money in the mill, or disappointment that his gift was now rather redundant. Disappointment won and he couldn't help the small sigh which escaped him as he sought to let go of her arm.

Margaret merely tightened her grip and rested her head on his shoulder. 'I cannot thank you enough. I tried to be sensible and practical about it, but I admit that it hurt to part with all my parents' belongings. Now at least I have this, and even if I don't have my father's books, we can fill it up with our own someday.'

For a moment they were silent, and then Mr. Thornton spoke, his voice sounding almost hesitant. 'Margaret?'

'Hmm?'

She couldn't see his face, but she could feel the tension in his muscles when he next spoke. 'That letter you sent… will the bookcase stay empty after you get the reply?'

'No,' she said softly. 'I will never let our bookcase remain empty.'

His arm wrapped itself around her waist and she knew without looking that he was smiling.


	22. The Truth

**A/N:** Oops. This update is ridiculously delayed, I know. Still, I hope the content makes up for it somewhat.

According to my story plan, there are still a few important loose ends to be tied up after this chapter, but I hope at least that if the story remains unfinished at this point, it won't be _so_ excruciating for you guys. I will try and finish it, but can't make any promises, sorry.

As always, would love to hear what you think of this one!

EDIT: Thanks to mariapazgarcia for catching the mistake – probably should have noticed that one myself!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two – The Truth**

* * *

Soon after she had auctioned off her parents' belongings, Margaret had written to Henry to ask both how much her father had left her and how she could access the money, and how his enquiries concerning Fred's ship had progressed, and when the morning's post brought a letter for her, she guessed that it was his reply.

She did not receive any mail except from Edith these days, and she thought she recognized his handwriting on the envelope.

Margaret opened it and began to read, and it was a mark of how much Mrs. Thornton had grown to like and trust her daughter-in-law, that – despite all her past suspicions and the unpleasant associations with mysterious letters – she asked no questions and made no comments about this piece of correspondence.

As for Mr. Thornton, both natural curiosity and a sense – hard to dispel, however misplaced he now knew it to be – that letters Margaret received from a mysterious source carried a danger of taking her from him made it extremely difficult for him to look away and concentrate on his breakfast, though he made a valiant attempt at it.

Their discretion was rewarded by Margaret explaining who the letter was from and freely paraphrasing its contents. 'I wrote to Mr. Lennox to enquire about the small inheritance my father left me,' she said. 'He has replied to instruct me on how to access the admittedly small – but hopefully helpful – fund of three hundred pounds which is now mine.'

The portion she did not mention was Henry's response to her other query. _I have enquired as far as I can_, he had written, _and all I can tell you is that his ship safely reached its port in Santander. As to his current whereabouts and his safety, I am afraid I cannot find you any more information._

He did, however, have some words of comfort. _If he has not written to you, he must have good reason. And I do not believe you need to fear that he is captured; as far as Frederick is concerned, no news is most definitely good news. A British mutineer having been caught and apprehended would have without a doubt made front page news._

The logical part of Margaret was reassured by these sensible words, but the part which consisted of her love for her brother could not help the ever-present worry which seemed to have settled like lead in the bottom of her stomach ever since the expected reply had never come.

'I know it is not much,' was all Margaret said aloud however, in reference to her father's legacy. 'But it is better than nothing, I suppose.'

It was when Mr. Thornton gave her a small, grateful smile across the breakfast table, the expression of his eyes tender and trusting, that Margaret decided that this charade could not continue any longer. When her husband had been so good to her, and had involved her so much in his life, and allowed her to help as much as she could with the mill, she could not do otherwise than take him into her confidence as far as regarded Fred.

Yes, he was a magistrate – and there were still all the old arguments about not wishing to burden his conscience with hiding the truth about Fred; but there were now new arguments against allowing this secret to torment him and eat away at the foundations of whatever relationship they could have. And if she had trusted him then before he had shielded her (and unknowingly Fred as well) from an inquest, well, in the following months her confidence in him had only grown.

She resolved that she would speak to him that evening when they were alone, and passed the day in a state of nervous anticipation interrupted by premature bursts of joy and relief that soon, soon this burden would be lifted off her shoulders, and she could finally enjoy total openness of communication with Mr. Thornton.

He was looking gloomy that evening after he had returned from the mill, which was unsurprising, as neither of them could see any way to accessing more funds than they had already gathered, and both were uncomfortably aware that these would last only two, perhaps two and a half months at the longest.

However, this did not deter Margaret; indeed, it only made her more determined to make her communication in the hope that his finally knowing the truth would be as welcome to him as it would be to her.

And so accordingly, after some commonplace conversation about the way they had spent their respective days, taking a deep breath, she began. 'Mr. Thornton, when you saw me by the post office that day, do you remember asking me about the letter I had sent, and me saying that I would tell you everything in time?'

He had been shrugging himself out of his coat when he froze at her words. After a moment he seemed to force his muscles to relax and completed the action, depositing the coat on the back of a chair. 'Yes,' he said shortly, his face impassive.

And yet Margaret knew from his very curtness and the way his eyes were fixed on her face that he was desperate for more information. 'These past months I have often felt that it was not right to… well, not _lie_ to you exactly, but to conceal the truth as I have been doing. For myself I would not hesitated in telling you all, but the secret was – _is_ – another person's, and I could not justify easing my conscience while possibly doing him harm.'

His face was pale, and his eyes rather hard – and yet it was a mark of how far they had come that he remained silent and refrained from making the bitter, caustic reply which was on the tip of his tongue that she must care about this other man a great deal.

With deliberate calm, she sat on the edge of the bed while Mr. Thornton chose the chair upon which he had draped his coat. 'The thing is,' she began haltingly, 'Frederick – that is, the man you saw me with at the station–'

She saw the tension in his hands, which had whitened as they clutched the arms of his chair. 'He is my brother,' she said quickly. 'Eight years ago, he joined the Navy…'

Mr. Thornton had listened to her story intently, and made no interruptions, but once she had finished, he remained still, and instead of expressing joy and relief, his countenance remained rather inscrutable. 'Why didn't you tell me before?' he asked quietly, after some moments of silence.

Margaret's heart sank. Of all reactions, she had not expected this one: joy manifesting in demonstrative affection she had vainly hoped for, anger which would be dispelled by the whole truth coming out she had been prepared for (joy and demonstrative affection she had of course hoped to follow), but this quiet disappointment was worse than anything. 'I told you,' she said weakly, 'it was to keep Fred safe.'

There was a flash of something like pain in his eyes before their expression hardened. 'And explaining the circumstances to me would have put him in danger? Do you really trust me so little?'

She winced. 'It was not like that. It is not that I did not trust you – but you are a magistrate, and–'

'And you think I am the kind of man who would have given up his brother-in-law to be hanged,' he finished flatly.

Margaret felt a flash of anger. _Why _was he not even trying to understand her? 'Are you saying you would not have considered it?' she said hotly. 'Are you saying you would have aided an outlaw to evade the law?'

'Of course I would have, if it meant protecting you,' he snapped. 'I did it once, and I'd do it again, and yet you – you kept this from me, and for _months_ you let me think…' He stopped suddenly, as if aware that he had gone too far.

Margaret, who had felt a stab of guilt and shame when he had made a reference to his role in sparing her from the inquest, now lost any fleeting regret she might have had for continuing the quarrel. 'I let you think what, exactly?' she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

Mr. Thornton reddened slightly, and his eyes lowered from her gaze. However, he resolutely said nothing, making neither accusation nor apology.

It was the lack of the latter which made Margaret see red. 'I suppose you imagined,' she said icily, 'that poor Fred was a lover with whom I had clandestine meetings as well as a correspondence which I continued in secret after I married you. Or were your suspicions perhaps worse? Was I perhaps, true to my mercenary ways, planning to run off with him the moment I discovered that the mill was not prospering?'

He looked at her, wide-eyed. This was so nearly exactly the fear that had been tormenting him until she had given him her support that he could think of nothing to say in his defense.

When he did not refute her accusations, Margaret could not choke back an angry sob. 'What on earth have I done to give you such a base view of my character?'

Mr. Thornton was not sure if he were angrier at himself or at her. 'Nothing,' he burst out. 'Nothing except concealing the whole as if conscious of its being wrong.' He was irritated that she could be so naïve, that she could condemn him for thinking what must surely jump to the mind of any man in his circumstances. 'I am sorry,' he said with some sarcasm, 'if my suspicions did not immediately jump to a mutineer brother whose existence I was totally unaware of until today; but you must admit what it looked like to someone unacquainted with your family history.'

'I will not,' said Margaret fiercely. Her voice began to rise. 'To anyone who knew me at all, to anyone who had had the least bit of trust in my character, it would have been apparent that there was more to it than what was visible at the first glance.'

He sprang to his feet, unable to bear any more. 'I was jealous!'

The utterance in its raw anguish seemed even louder than it was for the stunned silence which followed it.

'I was jealous,' he repeated quietly, running a shaking hand through his hair as he began to pace. 'Fear distorted my judgment. I was afraid – so very afraid that I would lose you that any threat I perceived would be magnified a hundredfold as it tormented me.' He sighed. 'I know you married me only because you had to; and I could not help imagining the worst. In your brother I saw only a man you preferred to me, and in your protecting him, I saw only a lack of trust in me.'

Margaret's heart was pounding from this revelation and much of her anger had drained away; and yet she could not allow herself to hope. She was all too aware of the disgust her concealment had given him of her; for had not his first reaction upon hearing the truth been to question it? She forced herself to speak through the lump in her throat. 'You are being ridiculous, Mr. Thornton.' Her voice sounded miserable, even to her own ears. 'Where there is no love, there can be no jealousy.'

Mr. Thornton, who had abruptly stopped his pacing at her words, laughed helplessly before sinking down onto the edge of the bed next to her. 'You are right, of course,' he agreed, smiling. Then he brought a hand up to cradle her face, his thumb gently stroking her temple. 'Margaret, you should know that I was very, very, _very_ jealous.'

And if Margaret were not able to say anything in reply to this, Mr. Thornton did not mind in the least, for her response – which had been to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him full on the mouth – had been quite eloquent enough in assuring him that while she might have married him out of necessity, the case was much altered now.


End file.
